


That Which Fades

by Captains_Orders



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Fishing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Torture, Slow Burn, Speculation, Violence, past trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captains_Orders/pseuds/Captains_Orders
Summary: Niflheim and Lucis wage a war of which there is no escape, and now he serves on both sides, straddling the scales with no means of justice to stay his hand. But home is all that matters, and Titus Drautos, despite himself, hopes that it can thrive again one day, wants it more than anything.But he learned long ago that simply wanting would never be enough.And things never go as planned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> How did I get here?  
> I won't lie I started a smut oneshot at the beginning of February and it snowballed horribly the more I thought about this ship so now I have whatever this is instead of something short and manageable.  
> This is very headcanon heavy (which has been a fairly new experience as far as speculation is concerned) and the timeline was as close to canon as I could get it considering all the hoops square made me jump through to have anything make sense. I've never really written anything like this actually. 
> 
> I am garbage at update schedules so I won't even try to set one but I have a clear end in mind and already 8k working towards it so I hope you enjoy the ride. 
> 
> Unbetad  
> (One day I'll learn how to conquer the unholy trinity of title, summary, and betad work but it is not this day)

_Twenty Years Ago_

A cool breeze brought the smell of salt and summer, crisp and clean to his nose. He was lucky, already being trusted with a post on watch during the height of the day. Mother would be proud, and father too he was sure. His chest puffed with his own pride at the thought. Titus had promise, every soldier said so. Already of a height with most of the grown men at only fifteen and a hard match with a sword as well. He was on his way to great things was what mother said, and Titus finally believed her. People waved as he passed, some he knew others he’d simply seen enough to recognize, from the shopkeepers and workers to the children playing through the village. It was a good day, Titus decided.

It was a good day at least until he heard the shouting. Titus didn’t know what was happening, but he rushed to his post all the same. 

“-the Empire! Prepare the defenses! Protect the people!” Was all Titus heard his captain order before a sudden outburst of panic gripped the village. A dark shadow passed overhead accompanied by a low hum. Eyes drawn to the sky Titus saw Niflheim’s ships for the first time, and a sharp inescapable fear filled his heart.

_Present_

Lucis gleams as noon peaks, but Titus ascends the Citadel’s steps immune to it's beauty. King Regis had sent a personal summons first thing that morning, and Titus tries not to let his thoughts linger on why as he makes his way through the halls to the elevator. Long years of discipline keep him from fidgeting as he makes the ride up to the right floor, waiting for that final ding before he can step out and continue his trek. The guards posted at the door to the audience chambers let him pass without question, and he enters the grand space with his head held high before kneeling at the base of the dais steps.

“Your Majesty,” he states, carefully schooling his features for whatever may come. 

“Rise,” King Regis orders and Titus does as he’s bid, returning to his feet and looking up to where the king sits upon his throne, his Shield standing beside him. “I’m sure you are wondering why I have summoned you here.”

“I am indeed.” 

“The attack on Galahd last night, I’m sure you have heard,” King Regis begins. Of course he had, thanks to all the news, but Titus knows better than to speak, and simply nods. “It is concerning to see that the Empire has grown so bold that they would bring their attacks so close to the Crown City, and I have no intention of letting it happen again, not without retribution.”

“If I may be so bold, you Majesty, I thought that was the Crownsguard’s purpose.”

“It is, but I intend to forge a special division of soldiers, separate from the Crownsguard, made to intercept such attacks in a more direct way. They will be granted access to the Crystal’s magic as well, which I hope will give them an edge against our foe.” There was a lot of information to process and sort through, important things to tuck away until he was contacted and pressed for new Lucian secrets by Niflheim, particularly Izunia, but that was a bitter pill to swallow at a different time.

“A most logical response, but I fail to see my place in such plans, Your Majesty,” he finally replies. 

“I want you, Titus Drautos, to lead them.” Before he can respond with his surprise there is a huff. From the corner of his eye Titus sees the figure step away from the wall to his right, and while he has never met the man he knows him. Marshal Leonis of the Crownsguard, the one they called The Immortal, his expression sour. 

“Your Majesty, please-” The marshal hardly gets to start his argument before he’s silenced. 

“The Crownsguard alone cannot defend Lucis, Cor, you know as well as I! We need more, and I will not repeat this discussion.” 

“Forgive me, I will not speak out of turn again.” The marshal deflates. He bows his head low and shoots Titus a harsh glare. It is silent for a moment, as the tension in the room sizzles and cools, and once it does the king focuses on Titus once more. 

“Do you have an answer for me, Drautos?”

“I humbly accept the honor, Your Majesty. But I must ask where you would find such a force.” The king sighs at that, looking weary. 

“Volunteers.” Regis stands and begins his descent from the throne, Titus takes a few steps back to make way as the king approaches. “They will be volunteers,” he finishes when he reaches the base of the steps. 

“You intend to recruit from Galahd.” It’s not hard to put two and two together, and Titus barely manages to keep the bitterness from his voice. What better than refugees protecting the great lands of Lucis, and who better to lead them than a refugee like himself. There’s a building anger that he’s only able to mask due to nearly two decades of practice, the only tell being the nervous twitch of his index finger against his thigh. He’s spent too long serving those he despises for anything of substance to show. 

“Yes, at first, that is part of why I grant this title to you. You know their plight better than most, and your exploits on the field are admirable.” Titus bows his head and exhales, releasing the tension building in his jaw and the fire burning in his heart, masking the motion as a gesture of respect he does not feel before he rises. “I mean to make for Galahd with the Crownsguard to provide relief as soon as we are ready-” the king pauses to look him in the eye, “-and it is my hope that you will accompany us.” There is a bright belief in the king’s tired eyes and Titus almost wants to laugh at this cruel joke the world is playing on him. 

“Of course,” he says with as much conviction as he can muster because he can’t say much else, the words that form in his mind are too sour and tainted with hate. “But I will not take your power.” Disappointment mixed with surprise flash across the king’s face, and he searches his eyes for a reason why. “Let me lead my new soldiers as no more than a man and I will make them great, and they will trust me all the more for it.” A lie. An easy lie that slips from him out of some half sense of pride and fear. With Glauca within him the Crystal’s magic could fail to take, or more likely, it would simply kill him the moment it detected the abomination that he is. This was a much simpler solution, and perhaps the most beneficial in the long run. 

It takes the King a moment to take the partial rejection, brow furrowed in thought, but then his face softens, and he gives Titus a genuine smile full of trust and gratitude that makes him feel sick. 

“Thank you.” The king’s hand twitches at his side, like he wants to clap him on the shoulder but thinks better of it, that damn ring catching the light in a way that’s almost taunting. 

“And what are we to be called, Your Majesty?” Titus says because there is nothing else to ask. This new burden an opportunity he must accept. Let Niflheim’s spy rise through the ranks without effort and none in Lucis the wiser. 

“The Kingsglaive.” The ill feeling of creeping guilt leaves him in an instant. Such a fitting name for a tool. And how long would it be until the sword of the king was broken? An inevitable outcome, but a thought creeps in to temper that, one he locks away for a later date. 

“Then we will serve, Your Majesty, to whatever end.” He stands at attention, eye to eye with the man he loathes, and watches him smile again. 

“There will be much to prepare. We have a long journey ahead of us, Captain Drautos.”

~X~

Noon finds Titus preparing to leave with the king and his chosen entourage, his Shield, a number of Crownsguard, medics, and himself. It had taken longer than Titus thinks necessary for him to be instated and made to look the part. Still, he feels out of place, no amount of formal garb could change that. His new armor fits well, from the fatigues to the ornate leather, but they will never make him of them. The cape lays draped beside him on the side seat, the chains clinking softly with every bump they hit on the road. Chains, how fitting, and while the uneven rhythm they make seeps into his head and claws for memories buried too deep to pull out Titus lets his mind drift.

How long has the king planned this exactly? The Kingsglaive is hardly even formed, with only him acting as a figurehead for the time being, and already there was armor waiting for him. Did they know he would accept this new title before he even asked, for such armor to be so well fitted without his knowing? It was easy to take old measurements from files and records, but assumptions were not records to be pulled at leisure. King Regis knew he would accept the same way Ardyn Izunia had known all those years ago. Perhaps it was something in his eyes, or just an obvious part of his character. Regardless, Titus tries not to care, and like all things that make him doubt he shoves it deep and locks it away, never to taint his motivation.

King Regis sits across from him, talking softly to Clarus Amicitia in the front seat. To his right, in the backseat, a woman of the Crownsguard taps away at a tablet in her lap, looking over what Titus assumes are updates on the condition of Galahd, flanked by two other members of her order doing similar tasks. Not that it matters to him. As his eyes drift over to the front Marshal Leonis catches his gaze through the rearview mirror from his place in the driver’s seat. They hold each other’s stare for no longer than a heartbeat, but it's long enough to feel the near palpable distaste as the marshal’s eyes flit back to the road and his own shift towards the window. A problem to be solved on another day. 

They’re still a few miles out when they see the smoke, long tendrils curling into the sky like the region is calling for rain. Titus watches the scenery crawl by through the tinted windows of the van and lets his thoughts calm as the whole convoy speeds ahead. 

The first village they reach is in shambles. What buildings left standing are damaged and many are little more than heaps of rubble. Titus steps out of the van, thick boots crunching through ash and dirt, and fights the smell of destruction as it washes over him. It's an all too familiar sight. He reaches back into the van to pull out the cape and drapes it around his shoulders, fastening the chains and letting the weight settle onto his shoulders in more ways than one. Marshal Leonis is the second out, a momentary distraction as he beelines to where the rest of the convoy is pulling in, no doubt ready to start barking orders when bid by his king. His attention is pulled from the Marshal when he hears the king exit with his Shield close on his heel, and turns to offer a partial bow. 

“Welcome to Galahd, Your Majesty.” Either the king does not hear him or he simply ignores the comment because Titus receives no response. Instead the king turns to Marshal Leonis. 

“Cor, dispatch the Crownsguard. Gather survivors, tend to the wounded, you know your duty.”

“It will be done,” The Marshal replies. Rounding up the soldiers he commands and giving orders with quick efficiency. He disappears into the village’s corpse alongside his men, leaving a few behind with the king, including that same woman from the van. Amicitia speaks to her in hushed tones, and Titus finds himself practically alone with the king. 

The people of Galahd were slowly beginning to emerge from what was left of their homes, whispering amongst themselves. Not everyone is given the honor of the king himself, recognizable to any citizen of Lucis, coming to aid them. Titus almost snorts at the thought. 

“Does Niflheim know no mercy?” King Regis asks quietly, almost too quiet to hear. There’s some forgotten toy at his feet, dark patches in the ground where the blood soaked in during the night, and Titus finds he has nothing to say. In the distance a wailing cry rings out and takes his voice with it. There is silence after that, one that neither he nor the king breach as they wait. Dark memories claw at his thoughts and Titus takes a deep breath, focuses on the now, and exhales. And they wait, time passing sluggishly as they do. 

Marshal Leonis returns within the hour, his men trickling back after him. Some carry wounded villagers past on stretchers to be tended to by the medics, others arrive followed by young Galahdians, the prospects for the Kingsglaive. He eyes them discreetly as they appear, taking stock of what he’ll have to work with if the king’s plan works. From experience he knows it will, these people, young people just barely into adulthood, are desperate now. It’s a simple question of how many want to fight back against the force that destroyed their homes. 

Titus hardly listens as the king, his shield, and the marshal, discuss the best course of action. Instead he watches the people, standing straight as his eyes roam the growing crowd. 

“Drautos?” Titus turns his attention to the king, who looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to share his thoughts. He has plenty on the whole ordeal, but he holds his tongue with ease. 

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“How should we proceed?” All eyes were on him in that moment, patient and trusting save the marshal’s glare. 

“Speak honestly of the Kingsglaive and your intentions, appeal to their suffering,” he replies, and then after a moment's thought adds, “give them hope.” Regis nods, and Titus fights the angry twitch of his fingers. 

A king before a broken people is nothing, Titus knows that from first hand experience, but these people are not broken yet. He can see the hope in their eyes from the mere presence of this Lucian king they’ve never known. It’s quiet as King Regis steps away from his Crownsguard and toward the villagers, coming to a stop just ahead of where his defenders stand waiting. 

“People of Galahd, I cannot find apt words to convey my condolences for the horrors you have endured. Niflheim has attacked your home, and while I cannot undo what they have done, I vow to do all I can to prevent such things from happening again. But I cannot do it alone. We-” he gestures back to the Crownsguard, “-cannot do it alone. The Kingsglaive will do what we cannot, with all the power I can give it, and Captain Drautos to lead it.” An addition that puts the focus on Titus for a moment as the king gestures to him, and he meets the stares as many stares as he can. “Lucis needs your strength, young warriors. Will you stand with us?” Murmurings rise up through the people, and King Regis glances to him, a clear call for help as no one makes a move, but Titus stays put with naught but a nod for the man. To his credit the king understands the gesture, and stands tall and unyielding as they wait for his words to sink in. 

After a nervous moment of hushed chatter the people cheer, now filled with a bright in their hearts now, a hope he helped put there. He doesn’t know what to feel, so he doesn’t, pushing it all aside to focus on the bright eyed youths now jostling forward. Titus steps back, away from the people, away from the king, sequestering himself in a pocket of space where the Crownsguard part around him to leave him be, taking down names and information of those now eager to join the Kingsglaive. It’s hard not to wonder how many will die, because they will, like ants to a behemoth. But Titus had learned the hard way that it was a fool thing to grieve the inevitable, so he lets the thought come and go like the rain this land so desperately needs, and has little trouble in keeping himself indifferent. 

“Captain?” He pivots on his heel to see a young man, his clothes ragged, eyes filled with a hollow fire. It’s familiar. Like a mirror from long ago, reflecting a scene that played out once before in a different time, far away from where they stand. Titus wonders if it will play out the same, but the thought is gone as quick as it came. 

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Nyx Ulric,” the boy says rather stiffly, and after an awkward pause he adds a curt, “sir.” Titus looks him up and down with a calculating eye.

“Have you been added to the roster?”  
“Yes, sir. First on the list.”

“Do you know how to use that?” He gestures to the curved dagger clenched tight in the young man’s fist. Ulric shrugs, but his expression doesn’t waver from determination. 

“Could be better.” Titus smirks.

“I think I can work with that. Welcome to the Kingsglaive, Nyx Ulric.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A timely update? Unheard of. Seriously don't get used to it I have never produced a timely fic update in my life.  
> This chapter, and probably some if not all of the ones after it, jumps around more than the first. There was stuff I wasn't going to add, but I felt like the chapter was missing stuff without it. Kinda hard to predict where this fic will go when again I've never written something like this before.   
> Also I'm not really one for long chapters in fic. Some later chapters might get a little longer, but generally they'll stay pretty short (and by that I mean manageable)  
> Cor will start to show up more, and he'll end up being a main part of chapters by chapter 4 (at least thats what I think given where I am with everything now) there was just a lot for Titus I wanted to get into since there's so little for him. 
> 
> unbetad

_Twenty Years Ago_

Fire engulfed the watchtowers, spitting smoke high and turning the sky a sickly grey. Titus kept running. Every scream drew him to a different part of the village, gunfire unable to drown out the sounds of agony. So he fought with everything he had, sword slashing against the metal soldiers now terrorizing his village. Hot blood streamed down his face and seeped through holes in his clothes, but he couldn’t stop, not yet. He had to find mother, and father if he could. Red threatened to drip into his eyes and he swiped at it with a sleeve as he turned the last corner near home.

One of those metal men, taller than the others, stood eerily still, five bodies crumpled around it’s feet, a bloody long axe in it's hand. It almost seemed to hear him, the head turned towards him, and Titus met its gaze. It had eyes, red and frightening, silver face carved like a person. Then the body followed. With a creak the machine lunged at him and Titus barely threw himself to the side in time to miss the swing of the axe. The soldier kept coming, swinging the large weapon tirelessly, relentless in its attacks. Titus could hardly keep up, just managing to stay alive as the metal monster did it's best to kill him. He hardly managed to block a high downward swing, metal ringing as the weapons caught at the wrong angle and Titus’s blade snapped like bone. Splinters of metal explode out from the impact, one shooting past his face, he felt the jagged edge catch his cheek and winced. 

An opening he should have never given. The next blow caught him across the back, pulling a cry from his dry throat, a long cut that could have cleaved him in too if he hadn’t thrown himself forward at the last moment. Still it was agony, a searing pain that made his vision blur. But if he stopped now he would die. With the little strength he had left Titus gripped the severed hilt of his sword hard, spun around, and thrust the broken steel up with all his might, driving the blade under the metal soldier’s chin. Slowly it stilled, and with an odd metallic screech the light faded from it's eyes and Titus watched it fall, taking his broken sword with it. His legs wobbled beneath his weight, his breathing hard and heavy. 

Someone clapped. 

“Well done, I must say, well done. That was truly impressive.” A haughty voice called, and Titus looked over slowly. The man was dressed from head to toe in elegant garb far beyond anything he’d ever seen in the village. A chill raced down his spine, the stranger was almost as unsettling as the Empire’s metal men. 

“Who are you?” 

“Oh just a simple man come to see his work,” the stranger replied. And then he lifted his hat and swept it wide in a grand flourish. “Though most know me as Izunia, Ardyn Izunia.” 

“You’re with the Empire,” Titus said, watching the man warily. 

“How observant.”

“What do you want?”

“Well now that you ask,” he drawled as if an idea had just occurred to him. “There is a mantle that must be filled, one I think you’d fit quite well.” Ardyn Izunia looked him up and down and Titus shuddered. 

“I’ll never serve the Empire!”

“There’s no need to shout. I am simply offering an opportunity, my dear boy, one that would save your quaint little village from further harm. Don’t you want that?”

“King Morus won’t abandon us,” Titus snapped back with the utmost conviction. 

“Oh, well, we’ll see about that in due time. Don’t worry, I know this is a big decision, a plunge into the great unknown and all that. Just be sure to have an answer when next we meet.” With that he turned on his heel and began walking away. Titus tried to follow but staggered, the strain finally wearing on him as the adrenaline faded. He stumbled forward. One step. Two. Trying to catch up. So many questions he needed to ask.

“Wait!” But he hardly made a sound. No matter how much he fought his body was failing him, exhaustion taking over. A familiar grey shawl caught his eye amidst the pile of bodies and he lost his footing in the wet dirt and hit the ground hard, every wound screaming in protest. Titus tried to get up, but he couldn’t, the pain was too great, and he had no strength left. He moved his head as much as he could, searching for Izunia until he caught a glimpse of the shifting dark fabric of his strange garb. It was then that the man began to whistle, a cheery tune Titus knew, a song mother used to sing when he was small. Suddenly it all seemed like a very bad dream, one he would wake from at any moment. The last thing he saw was black boots, and then nothing, lulled by that familiar lullaby.

_Present_

In the days that follow Titus is lost to the bustling blur of the Citadel, whisked from one end to the other by all manner of attendants. His new position has put him in the spotlight, a grim novelty to the Lucian government. Some immigrant who was known just enough for the king to personally pick him for his new force of soldiers. It gets him more attention than he ever cared to gain. He bears it because he must, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. Formalities and custom aside it serves as an informative experience. He answers all questions with sufficient care, and in turn asks his own which is only fair for someone put so suddenly in his position. Despite their obvious doubt about the king’s new force the Council treats him with respect, if not veiled skepticism. Despite that it goes smoothly for the most part, except for his run ins with the marshal. All he does is glare but Titus can see the distrust in his eyes, it's the right thing for him to be, but it's not good for Titus’s own purpose. He’ll have to deal with that at some point, but such thoughts can wait.

At least the Kingsglaive is given it’s own headquarters, converted from the old yard once used by the Crownsguard and better fitted to the unique circumstance of the Glaive. It will serve well he thinks, an open courtyard with a pillar perfect for testing the warping magic the Glaive will possess, and the building itself filled with enough training rooms to specialize against Empire forces. It's the first step towards something, all the Kingsglaive needs now is it's soldiers, set to arrive some time after noon. Not long now. Titus has already taken care of the specifics, and what he hadn’t done himself the Council had. Uniforms and armaments all stocked and ready for those who were set to wield them. Measurements had been jotted down with other information when they’d accepted the volunteers, and various weapons were lined up on the wall of the armory. Not many to start, not until it was decided what the most optimal one was for the Glaive as a whole. They would all need to use the same weaponry, and stay mobile. A gloved hand traces a pair of daggers curiously as he lets his mind wander while he waits. 

Behind every thought the Empire lurks, and Titus has to try harder than he’d like to keep those thoughts buried until they are forced out when Glauca’s masters come calling. Another thing he burries to dig up another day. All he must be now is Titus Drautos, Captain of the Kingsglaive, and his thoughts cannot waver. But he finds that the simple task of being no more than himself has become almost difficult. Has he truly lost himself somewhere along the way? Is that a surprise?

“Captain Drautos?” The timid call pulls him from his musings, and he looks up to see a member of the Crownsguard standing in the doorway. “The volunteers are arriving now, sir.”

And so it begins.

~X~

People are much harder to lead than Niflheim’s magitek troopers, Titus discovers. Truth be told he didn’t expect it to be easy, but it was proving to be trouble simply because of the individuality of his new soldiers. Hand to hand combat had been the focus before he let them near weapons, let alone magic, but it was proving a more dificult lesson than anticipated. Thoughts that are prompted as he watches yet another spar evolve into something more feral. Tredd Furia, the boy with the smart mouth, throws another punch that Nyx Ulric barely dodges by leaning back. Tredd swipes low, a good tactic, but his opponent is smart enough to anticipate the blow, and as he loses balance Nyx hooks his foot around Tredd’s ankle and lets the momentum take them both down. An unpredictable and surprising move. They hit the dirt in a tangled thrashing heap and their fellow Glaives go from cheering the fight to trying to break it up as arms continue to flail against one another. It looks like others are tempted to join the fray and Titus picks then to intervene.

“Break it up, that's an order!” he barks out as he approaches. The two glaives on the ground freeze and then scramble away from each other to stand as quickly as possible. Tredd wipes at his face with a bare arm, smearing the blood leaking from his nose, Nyx is slower to his feet and judging by the way he moves Titus thinks he might have fractured a rib. 

“Captain-” Tredd opens his mouth and is promptly silenced with a cold glare. 

“I don’t want to hear any excuses,” he snaps. “A spar is meant to train, to hone and test your skills with each other, not-” he glares pointedly at both of the men at fault “-to intend harm. Now I don’t care what prompted this spat, but if I catch this sort of behavior again you’ll both regret. You don’t have to get along, but find some camaraderie or I’ll give you the worst reassignments I can think of. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Captain.” They both stand at rigid attention, and Titus hopes their wounded pride is enough to prevent this from happening again. 

“Good. Report for medical attention and be at my office within the hour. Dismissed.” For a moment it looks like Tredd might argue, but he has the sense to think better of it and simply spits the blood from his mouth and does as he’s told. Quietly, Nyx Ulric follows, his friends trailing behind him like they want to offer help as he limps off. “Luche,” he says, not looking away from the retreating men.

“Captain?” 

“Make sure they don’t kill each other on the way.” 

“Yes, sir,” he replies immediately, and dashes to catch up. A sigh leaves him as he watches them go, and he rubs briefly at his temple before returning his attention to the rest of his recruits.

“As you were. I want to see perfect form by the end of the week.” 

“Yes, sir!” Comes the resounding reply. 

Titus stays in the courtyard, weaving between sparring pairs and correcting form when necessary, hardly kind with his words but the results are already starting to show. With more work they could be something, the potential is there, it's just a question of how hard he’ll have to push them to bring it out. They had a long way to go.

~X~

Daggers may be the best idea he’s had for the Kingsglaive since he was put in charge of it. He supposes Nyx Ulric deserves some credit, after all it was his kukri that put the thought in his head in the first place. They’ve proved to be the ideal weapon, small, quick, mobile, and easy to learn. At least they should be easy to learn all things considered, but what he says doesn’t seem to be sticking. Some are better than others, Ulric in particular almost seems like he was born to be a Glaive, but where he excels in combat and magic he fails at taking orders. Defiant is too strong a term, but there’s something about Nyx Ulric that always manages to elude his understanding, something Titus doesn’t care for in the slightest.

Sparring with the Glaives is something he doesn’t make a habit of, but some lessons require example, and he does what he must. Metal rings as the two blades connect, Nyx hardly makes the block, sweat beading his brow as he shifts his stance and pushes back against the weight of the blow. Titus had already disarmed him of his first kukri, but the boy was nothing if not determined. He lets up just enough and Nyx takes the false opening without thought, overreaching to strike at his right. It’s an obvious move, and Titus parries the strike with ease, following through with a high arc of his blade up and around to smack the flat of it harshly against the young man’s back. Nyx stumbles and Titus lets his attention shift to the steps behind him, dropping low as he spins around. Pelna Khara drops like a stone, groaning. Just the Nyx comes back with a kick aimed at his gut which he doesn’t even bother to block. Instead he braces against the kick, sloppy and weak, grabs Nyx’s ankle, and tosses him back head over heels. Both Glaives stay on the ground, but Nyx does shoot him a glare with a promising spark of determination. 

But just a spark is not enough. Potential must be realized or these warriors, all so young now, will die and the Kingsglaive would be nothing more than wasted lives and wasted time. 

“Teamwork is a necessity, but you can’t protect others if you can’t even defend yourself.”   
“Try again when you take my advice,” he finishes, cold and harsh as he turns and walks away, leaving the beaten Glaives on the unforgiving ground.

~X~

In the air the Glaives almost seem to dance, like a festival performance with lights and all, at least from where he stands at the top of the steps overlooking the training yard. With a critical eye their movements are sloppy, flailing limbs and stumbled landings, all leading up to one crucial fact.

They weren't good enough, not yet. 

Footsteps echo through the open hall behind him, the rhythmic tap of a soldier’s boots on marble. Not many visit the Glaives without sending him some sort of message for an appointment they needn't bother making. But Titus has come to know that particular purposeful step all too well, and he takes a deep breath even as his body tenses ever so slightly on reflex. 

“Again!”

“Captain Drautos.” Short and curt as always as the boots stop on his right, just out of view from the corner of his eye. 

“Ah, Marshal, to what do we owe the pleasure,” he replies without turning to face his unwanted guest. 

“The King wishes to know how close the Kingsglaive are to a possible deployment.”

“Not close enough.” Almost a warning, one that the marshal ignores regardless. 

“He wants them sent out to counter the Empire’s attacks as soon as possible.”

“They’re not ready. If he sends them now he’ll lose half the Glaive.” 

“Niflheim isn’t giving him much of a choice.”

“And what of the Crownsguard?” Titus demands. 

“We have been restricted to Insomnia unless given express permission in state of emergency.” Frustration seeps into his voice but Titus doesn’t care, not when his Glaives are unrefined and not even a hundred strong. 

“How long do I have to prepare my men?” He finally faces the marshal then, meeting his eyes with a cold stare. 

“They must be ready to deploy within a week, no longer, by the King’s orders.”

“Then it will be done.” He offers a tight lipped smile and a mocking excuse for a bow before he turns from the marshal completely and focuses back on the training yard. “Again!” And the whistling thrum of magic fills the air once more as the Glaives resume their warping drill, reading his tone well enough for the maneuvers he sees to be near perfect. 

Beside him the marshal huffs, like he wants to get in the final word, but he takes the dismissal for what it is. There’s a small feeling of triumph as Titus listens to the man stalk back the way he came. If King Regis wanted his Glaives to go into battle so soon he would have them, but he would not send them to die, Titus would make sure of that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is workin' some dark magic I can't believe I'm already updating it again.  
> I'll admit this chapter is pretty much a filler, it also skips around more than most, but I felt like if I went straight to what I have planned for number 4 it would feel like some things were missing.  
> Also a big thank you to everyone reading and enjoying this.  
> Unbetad as always.

_Roughly Sixteen Years Ago_

King Morus was dead, taken in the night by an illness that had plagued him for years. Titus held no grief for the king that had abandoned his home, his once ardent faith dashed the moment he’d heard there would be no aid from the mighty capital of Lucis. He’d been out on his shift when it happened, but the small roadside stop was packed with men and women jostling to see the small television broadcasting the prince’s coronation. Prince Regis, now king, was supposed to declare his response to Nifleheim’s recent string of attacks, and he was Titus’s last hope.

After the Empire came and went he’d left home, their new hold on his village one he hated with all he had. There was nothing to keep him there but painful memories, his parents were dead and all he knew gone and changed forever. Some had stayed, older members of the village, children not fit to travel, not many left there that he knew, so he’d bid them a half hearted farewell once his wounds had healed and been on his way. He hoped to find a new way to fight back against the might of Niflheim until his home could be freed. It had been years, and damn if he didn’t miss home more and more every day. And Regis had all the power now. The small space was crowded, so he stood back, peering over heads and shoulders to see the screen since he was taller than everyone else in the room. 

“Turn it up, I can’t hear over you lot,” he said just loud enough to carry over the other young soldiers crowded around. Silence followed his words almost instantly, and the girl up front turned up the volume without hesitation. For the most part the others kept their distance, he didn’t care much, but it wasn’t hard to guess that the fresh scars, harsh and red across his face and arms, were part of why. Intimidating, that’s what he was now, the boy who should have died but didn’t, as pessimistic and grim as the oldest veteran. Putting the thoughts from his mind he focused on the audio as it got louder. 

“-it is with a heavy heart that I declare the surrender of territories recently taken by the Niflheim Empire. My father’s death has stricken a heavy blow, and Lucis cannot spare the Crownsguard on attacks when our defense is so weakened. I feel-” Whatever the new king said next was lost to him. 

Titus left the building before he could hear anymore, ignoring the one concerned shout of his name that followed him out. Damn it all. His thoughts raged as he walked, emotions tangled as his last hope fell away. He could never go home now. The faith he’d had in the prince wilted and died like mother’s garden when rough storms came. Those irises, pretty and blue, would curl and turn a sickly grey, to weak to withstand the force unless mother covered them before the weather turned sour. That was how he felt, like a great storm had uprooted him and cast him away and the last chance of gentle rain had become a hurricane. When he reached the outskirts he stopped, fists curling at his sides, eyes, clenched to stem the threat of tears, a scream threatening to claw it's way out of his throat. His head tilted back as the first drops of rain fell from the grey clouds above, and Titus opened his eyes ready to unleash it all in a scream. But the sound died in his throat as he caught the first glimpse of Niflheim ships and instead sank to his knees. There truly was no escape, no hope for this place or for him, and King Regis didn’t care. Hot tears mingled with cool rain on his face, anger and grief overcoming him at last. His sword was put away, by his bed in the little makeshift barracks for the refugees. By the time he got there it would be too late, the ships had snuck in above the clouds, and they would be on the village in moments. Briefly Titus thought of simply staying where he was to let the village burn and he along with it, but the thought didn’t stick, it wasn’t in his nature.

So he forced himself to his feet just as the first ship reached the village and the first cries of alarm filled the air. Titus ran. It felt like a dream, the memories bubbling to the surface and clouding his vision as he remembered home. But he wasn’t fast enough. By the time he reached the building, fists bloodied from encounters he had already forgotten in the haze, it was empty. Broken MTs were scattered in pieces on the ground, the metal ringing under the steady drizzle. They’d escaped then, there wasn’t near as much chaos as back home, maybe they were getting stronger. Or maybe the Empire was just holding back. A near jovial whistling filled his ears, and Titus knew the answer. He was slow to turn his gaze towards the sound, in no rush to meet the inevitable. Dragging his gaze up from the metal corpses he saw the familiar swirl of dark fabric that lurked on the edge of his nightmares. The idle twirl of a black umbrella kept his attention away from the smug face beneath for a moment, a deceptively calming gesture. 

“Ah, you again,” Ardyn Izunia called, but there was little surprise in his lilting voice. “You know I tried to warn you about the line of Caelum, but I suppose saying I told you so would be a bit much?” Titus didn’t have the strength of will to reply, eyes glued back to the ground, watching the dirt turn to mud as the rain continued to fall. “You know I was hoping to find you here, I never did catch your name.” It sounded like a lie, and somehow Titus knew that he’d been tracked like a beast, but he found he didn’t care. Somehow this had become his fate, sealed the moment his eyes caught sight of those ships for the first time. 

“Titus Drautos,” he replied. Then he took a breath, deep and long, and thought of home. “Is that mantle still empty?” Finally he met the chancellor's eyes, and the man grinned, predatory and sinister.

“It is indeed. I’m glad that you’ve come to see reason.”

“What is it exactly?” There was a nervous edge to his voice he couldn’t quite shake, but he had to have at least some idea of what he was getting himself into. 

“An opportunity of course! One that will make you the strongest warrior Niflheim has ever produced. You’ll have more power than you could have ever dreamed, doesn’t that sound nice?” But Titus had never cared about power. 

“If I do this,” he began, voice not nearly as steady as he would have liked, “my home will be freed?” 

“I swear on the Empire itself your quaint little village will be left to it's own devices, just as you remember it.” Ardyn placed his free hand over his chest with a flourish. Titus let out a shaky breath.

“Alright, I’ll do it, whatever it takes.” For home, anything for home and the warm hearth he’d left behind. 

“Excellent,” Ardyn drawled. “Come along then,” he said, sweeping his free hand out. As he did it one of the ships descended, carefully lowering into the space between the scattered buildings, hatch opening as it hovered low to the ground. Titus looked at it, seconds ticking by as he warred with himself, head and heart at odds. But in the end there was no choice, no third option that would set him free to achieve what this cursed bargain offered. Titus steadied himself with another deep breath, pulling that comforting image to his mind’s eye once more. Then he went, damning himself with every step he took towards the ship that had once frightened him so. 

Behind him Ardyn Izunia grinned, his light pleased chuckle lost to the sound of engines and rain.

_Present_

“Do you know why I called you here?”

“No sir,” Nyx Ulric replies easily. Hands clasped behind his straight and stiff back as he stands still in the center of the room before his captain’s desk and betrays nothing of his thoughts. 

“You’re not as good at hiding things as you think,” he starts and Nyx eyes him warily as he stands. “Your episodes have become more frequent and disruptive. I can’t deploy you with the rest unless you can get a handle on it. You’re a talented soldier, Nyx Ulric, but control is key to surviving a real fight.” Titus walks over to the large window overlooking the training area to the left of his desk as he talks, watching the scenes play out below once he’s settled. He knows the symptoms all too well, the far off gaze, the lack of focus, the sharp breathing. Whatever Nyx Ulric endured when Galahd was attacked follows him always like shadow impossible to shake. 

“You bring me here for a lecture?” Nyx says and then adds an almost forgotten, “sir.”

“No,” he replies, glancing at the young man over his shoulder. “Next time focus on your breathing, it’ll ground you in the moment.” The Glaive’s eyes widened at that, brows raising in surprise. “The Kingsglaive needs to be at full force if we are to succeed. Your fellow Glaives need you at your best.”

“Is that a compliment, Captain?”

“That is all, Ulric. Dismissed.” 

“You got it, sir.” He says with an almost grin. He stops with his hand on the door, looking back for only a moment. “Thank you, Captain.” And then he’s gone. Unpredictable as always. Titus can only hope the young man takes his advice to heart, or his meager force will have even less of a chance for success in the coming conflict. But hope is for fools.

~X~

Two days. They only have two days before King Regis deploys the Kingsglaive into some conflict they’re not ready for, some rumored Niflheim occupation in some corner of Leide. For the first time in years Titus feels anxious, the looming battle one that has higher stakes than anyone realizes. He doesn’t have enough information, privy to no machinations save his own, and it feels like he’s lost in the dark. If he didn’t know better he would think he’d been left to his own devices, but nothing is ever so simple.

Final preparations must be made, he has less than a hundred Glaives to ready and command, and he’s running out of time.

~X~

It's late, the sun just starting to set, casting shadows into the training yard as he dismisses the Glaives from their final briefing before the morning. He’d kept the training easy today, they would need all their strength for the battle ahead but Titus can’t help but wonder if it's enough. This endeavor seems doomed from the start, which in truth it is, but this is a much quicker end than he anticipated. They needed more time, or a miracle, Titus couldn’t tell which was more likely. He catches sight of Marshal Leonis making his way down the hall steps over Crowe’s head, and tenses. He’s really not in the mood for the king’s lapdog now. Crowe notices despite his attempt to hide his displeasure, and she follows his gaze over her shoulder.

“Damnit,” she says, and follows it with an exasperated sound that only a fifteen year old could convey. Titus doesn’t bother to correct her impudence, after all she simply voices what he himself feels. 

“That is all, Crowe. Just remember what I said about control.” The young mage nods but he doesn’t miss the eye roll. 

“Good luck,” she mutters under her breath, but she’s gone before he can reprimand her and all he can do is cast a stern look at the back of her retreating head. 

“Captain Drautos,” Marshal Leonis calls as he approaches, and the purpose in his step is not lost on Titus. 

“Preparations are complete, Marshal, if you’ve come to check. We’ll be ready to head out come first light tomorrow.”

“Is that a dismissal, Captain?” he replies with an arched brow as he comes to stop a few paces away.

“I would never be so brazen,” Titus replies even though it most definitely is. “I simply thought to inform you of our status before you had need to ask.” 

“I see, but I must ask if the Kingsglaive is truly ready for such a task.”

“Do you doubt them?” And just like that the conversation becomes dangerous.

“The Kingsglaive has yet to prove it's worth.”

“Are His Majesty’s orders not sitting well with you, Marshal?”

“A great many things about the Kingsglaive fail to sit well with me.” They’re close now, almost chest to chest as they try to intimidate each other. 

“Imagine that. Let me remind you that we are not all given the luxury of choice, Marshal.” And the man bends, a brief flicker of confusion crossing his features. 

“Was the Kingsglaive not a choice for you and your men?”

“If only it were that simple,” Titus almost growls, unable to keep the bite from his words. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Marshal, I have things to do.” Then he brushes past him, their shoulders almost shoved against one another as he goes by. It’s the only hint at his rising temper, and Titus doesn't dare stop lest it get the better of him.

~X~

Before dawn they meet in the garage at headquarters lined with vans from end to end and crowded with Glaives all standing at perfect attention. Titus walked the the length of their lineup twice over before he stopped in the middle, satisfied with what he saw. He takes a deep breath, lets his mind clear and focus on the moment before he speaks. Rallying speeches have never exactly been his forte.

“Today you face your greatest challenge yet,” he begins, letting his gaze drift evenly over the soldiers before him. “You all know what Niflheim is capable of, you’ve seen and lived it in a way that most behind these walls can only imagine. I will not give you false assurances, this will not be easy, and weather or not it's worth it is up to you. Each and every one of you is the only chance your home has, and what are you here for if not to fight for that? Will you fight with me for your homes?” 

“Yes, Captain!” 

“For hearth and home!” He raises a fist, a rallying motion that brings swift reply, and risks being swept up in his own words.

“For hearth and home!” The Glaives echo back, copying the motion. It's almost deafening in the full garage, but their enthusiasm makes the trials of the day seem a little less daunting.

~X~

As the sun hits it's peak Niflheim retreats, falling back from their assault swift as a tide returning to the sea. It’s a sight he won’t ever forget, one he’ll cling to in the deepest parts of himself he keeps locked away. Victory was a new feeling, unfamiliar and strange. Maybe it felt that way because he knew it was hollow. Titus knew first hand what Niflheim was capable of in the field, and this battle had hardly been a fraction of that might. Still, it was a victory, and the way the Glaives cheered made the triumph feel real. There had only been three casualties, and the greater number of injured were already well on the road to recovery. It was more than Titus could have hoped for, and that was exactly why he knew that somewhere lurking in the dark was the puppet master pulling strings.

Pushing those thoughts from his mind he focuses on keeping the Glaives organized, rounding them back into the vans with the promise of celebration on their return. He won’t be joining them, he knows that much, but despite the distance he’s kept between himself and the Glaives, he feels pride, and that might not be such a bad thing.

~X~

There is no warm welcome waiting for their return, not that he expected one, but it feels like an insult nonetheless. Before disappointment can take hold of the Glaives he has them assemble in the briefing room. If they lose heart after their first deployment then the Kingsglaive is nothing, he can’t let that happen.

“Today was a great victory. What you achieved today exceeded not only my expectations, but that of the Council itself. We will honor our fallen, and mourn their loss, but you should all be proud that their deaths were not in vain.” He watches the expressions change as he speaks, tight lips tugging into smiles as the Glaives start to murmur amongst themselves of their success. “Now it’s late, and I won’t stand to see this victory go uncelebrated, go enjoy yourselves, tomorrow we’ll get back to work.” When they don’t immediately move despite their obvious excitement he can’t help the twitch of his lips. “Dismissed,” he says and the Glaives begin to pour out of the room like eager students released from an overdue class. The similarity steals the creeping smile from his face, but he brushes it off.

“Ulric,” he calls, stopping the young man in his tracks. His friends stop with him, nervously looking back between him and their Captain. “You were the hero of the day, take pride in that,” Nyx’s expression shifts, that indifference shifting into something that almost seems preening and he grins. 

“Just doing my duty, Captain,” he says, “every war needs one right?” And then he’s gone with his fellows, leaving Titus mulling over his words. Predictably unpredictable, that’s what that boy was but he didn’t have time to mull over such trivial things, the Council was waiting for him.

~X~

King Regis was obviously pleased, the man was practically beaming as Titus recounted the events of the day on his knees before the Council. When he finishes what feels like hours later the sky outside is dark and he finally feels exhausted. The don’t let him off so easy. Regis has to gush his pride and gratitude, Clarus his newfound respect, the members of the Council each compliment him, the Glaives, and the victory, and their names escape him. Very quickly he starts to feel restless, like a caged animal pacing as it's gawked at.

Casting his eyes towards the door yet again he tenses. Marshal Leonis stands near the entrance, a presence he hadn’t noticed before, and he catches his gaze over the shoulder of the politician currently singing his praises. There’s none of the familiar hostility, but it's hard to tell from the distance. The man nods at him, and it seems almost like an understanding, like the recent victory has quelled the rising conflict between them. He disappears from sight soon after that, but Titus feels a calm settle over him, and soon enough the king is calling for adjournment. 

It feels like freedom, and Titus doesn’t hesitate to make his hasty escape as he swiftly deals the required formalities on his way out. The Kingsglaive has weight now, it means something. He did that, though his feelings over it muddle like oil and water. The hardest part is over, they’re trusted now, established as a power. Titus has no doubt that the reputation of the Kingsglaive will only grow, but his pride can’t eclipse the truth of all he knows. But he tries.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earlier update than expected. 5 might take a bit longer.  
> Had a scene from this sitting for a while and I'm glad to have it done. Slowly but surely it feels like this fic is getting there.  
> There were some parts I wasn't sure about here, but I think it ended up working out alright.  
> Also added the tag past torture for this chapter's flashback, kept it brief but there's my heads up feel free to skip it if you need to and if I need to add any tag for you ever let me know. Glauca's "birth" speculation I suppose. Pretty sure this will be the last flashback. 
> 
> And again I want to give a big thanks to everyone reading and enjoying this, I'm not very confident when it comes to my writing, so getting such positive feedback on a fic that's already out of my comfort zone means a lot. 
> 
> unbetad (big surprise)

_Roughly Seventeen Years Ago_

Gralea was like a different world, not that he saw much of it beyond the stolen glimpses of the skyline he caught from outside the massive airship as it made its approach. If things were different he would have liked to explore, but he knew what he’d agreed to, knew that the keep was his new prison. Zegnautus was a frightening place, a seemingly endless maze of grey halls and dimly lit rooms where the people, scientists he supposed, hardly spared him a word. He knew some of what would happen, there would be magic involved in some way, and shots like they did back home to keep everyone well. Really it didn’t seem like it would be too bad, the worst part was that he served the Empire, but it could be worse he supposed. They led him from one room to another, took blood and general measurements, writing down all the specifics of his person before moving him on to the next room. All the while Chancellor Izunia trailed behind, playing the part of a friend that Titus knew was hollow. The man made him just as nervous as the tests, but his resolve was strong, and his imagination never conjured anything he didn’t think he could handle.

How wrong he was. 

~X~

The next injections make him scream, thick needles at the base of his neck, hitting bone and filling him once again with the liquid that felt like fire. Titus sagged against the restraints like a broken doll and waited for the pain to ease into the constant throb that had become familiar. He’d long since lost track of how long he’d been like this, or in the keep, it had all blurred together with the constant torment of tests and procedures. This was supposed to be the last part, the final step to turn him into the Empire’s next great asset. Blood welled in his mouth and he spat it out, a splash of color against the sterile grey of the floor. 

“Keep going,” he said, a harsh croak from his raw throat. The scientists running this particular session had paused when he’d gone limp, but they quickly resumed after he spoke, and the cycle continued. 

Behind the glass Emperor Aldercapt watched the scene play out with a blank indifference. Unfazed by the screams and borderline torture, the man simply looked bored. 

“This better not be another waste of time,” he said to his companion, watching as the fourth candidate for this batch of experiments jerked against the restraints with each new injection. 

“Not to worry, this one will take I assure you,” Ardyn Izunia replied with an easy grin. Not long after the scene behind the glass came to a close, the screaming stopped, and the standing restraints were undone. Titus Drautos fell, but he caught himself on shaking hands, blood dripping from his mouth as his body spasmed with empty heaves. “See, look at that, perfect.” 

“Nothing is happening,” Aldercapt said with a growing irritation. 

“Patience my dear Emperor, patience.” Ardyn placed his hand on the panel in front of them and pressed the intercom button. “Thank you, doctors, excellent work, run along now.” The two in question simply nodded their heads and took their leave after gathering their equipment, leaving the boy alone, still on his hands and knees. “How are you doing, Drautos?” He said though his tone was far too light given the circumstance and there wasn’t an ounce of concern in his voice. 

“I’m alive.” Came the response, shaky and rough. 

“Oh good, I was so hoping you would say that. Now I would give you time to rest but I hope you understand we’re on a bit of a tight schedule, so we need to test today’s work now.”

“I can take it,” Titus replied, slowly pushing himself up to his feet on wobbling legs. 

“Very well,” Ardyn replied and cut the audio feed into the other room. He gestured back to one of the guards at the door, and the soldier nodded and made his exit, he already had his instructions. It took less than a minute for the door to the small lab to open and the trooper Ardyn had placed on standby entered the room. One of the newer models, tall and bred perfectly for it's purpose, and the mere sight of it made the boy tense. 

Considering the recent strain on his body the boy managed to avoid the first few attacks aimed his way though not by much, stumbling back. Unfortunately for him the room was small and he was soon left with nowhere to go. The magitek trooper swung its blade in a controlled arc, catching the boy’s thigh in little more than a graze, and the boy screamed, an inhuman sound that thundered through the speakers. Ardyn Izunia grinned as they watched the scene unfold, the jagged metal coming forth for the first time in a slow yet wondrous example of the advances of Ardyn’s own twisted daemonic science. Steam surrounded the huddled form, the only indication that the boy hadn’t died being the constant roar of agony as Ardyn’s work payed off at last. 

Finally the steam cleared, and they saw the first success emerge. Gleaming armor had formed perfectly and there in place of the boy stood an imposing figure of untapped power that would only grow with it's host. In a humming flash he was across the room and on the trooper, it's blade glancing harmlessly off the metal as an armored hand grabbed the metal trooper by the face. It slammed into the glass before them hard, cracks running through it at the impact. Like the trooper was little more than paper Titus Drautos squeezed with his new found power and crushed the trooper’s head in a sparking burst of metal. 

“Your Imperial Majesty, I give you your newest weapon,” Ardyn said with a rather dramatic gesture towards his latest monstrosity and reveled in the impressed clapping around him.

_Present_

Meetings with the king and his council were exhausting in their own way, and usually leave him with a bitter taste in his mouth, especially when they run so long. They are a blessedly rare occurrence, especially now that the first trepid months of the Kingsglaive have come and gone with the force now strong and sure, but they remain as vexing as ever. For the most part they no longer make him angry, but there’s a frustrated energy that always follows him once they’ve finished. 

It’s just past noon, the meeting having eaten up most of the morning since he and the Glaives returned. Part of him wants to rest, retreat to his office for a few blissfully quiet hours with paperwork as the excuse, but there’s a nervous energy buzzing through him that protests the idea. Maybe he’ll take one of the training rooms back at HQ for himself for an hour or so. 

“Captain Drautos!” The call stops him in his tracks, and he braces for some confrontation he thought he’d avoided after the Kingsglaives first victory. He hasn’t seen the marshal since then, and it seems his luck has run out. 

“Ah, Marshal,” he says, turning to face him in a terse greeting as the man quickens his step a bit to catch up. 

“You left in quite the rush, Captain. His Majesty likely would have preferred you stay longer to share in the discussion of strategy.” 

“I’ve never had a mind for politics,” he replies and resumes his walk down the hall, uninterested in where the conversation seems headed, but the marshal is right beside him, easily keeping pace. 

“You and I both,” the marshal scoffs. 

“We’re soldiers, Marshal, it's a different breed.” It earns him a contemplative look from the marshal and the man stops beside him, forcing him to do the same lest he leave him behind. 

“Indeed,” He says almost too quietly to hear. “Would you care for a spar, Captain? Might put these military minds at ease.” Titus glances over with a skeptical eye, searching for an ulterior motive and finding nothing but a seemingly honest challenge. It would seem out of the blue if they hadn’t been fighting with words since the moment they met. As Titus said they were soldiers, and the best way they knew how to make peace was to fight for it. 

“I suppose I could take the time.” After all there was little excuse to decline when he’d given the Glaives the day to celebrate their latest success, and paperwork could always wait. 

“The training room is empty until one, unless you’d rather wait.” That itself seems like a challenge, and well it seems best to get this out of the way sooner rather than later. 

“Now is as good a time as any,” he says. Not waiting for the marshal to respond he continues down the hall towards the elevator with the man close behind. This was perhaps a poor idea, but it was also an opportunity, one best not ignored. 

The ride down to the proper floor is silent, not an easy kind of quiet nor the tense sort he expected. Only the soft mellow music of the elevator fills the small space, and Titus takes what little time he has left to plan. It’s just a simple spar, but it could tip the scales for or against him in an instant. When the elevator dings the marshal is the first out, leading the quick journey down the hall to the main training room in the Citadel. Like he said it's empty and they have some time before it's occupied again. Titus wants it to be quick, he would prefer not to have an audience. He’d only been in this particular room a handful of times before, back when he first came to Lucis and was evaluated as a soldier. It looks much the same now, marble floors perfectly polished and the weapon rack on the far wall just as full of weapons ranging from wood to blunted training steel. 

Titus heads to the nearest bench and begins to divest himself of the more cumbersome parts of his armor, removing his cape and placing it down neatly before unhooking his scabbard and placing it on top of the heavy garment. Out of the corner of his eye he watches the marshal approach the weapon rack and seemingly appraise its contents. He stops at the simple blunted blades, similar in make to the sword Titus was gifted when he was named Captain of the Kingsglaive, and runs a finger idly over one of the hilts.

“Will simple weapons suffice?” The marshal says and Titus ignores the jab.

“I’m sure we’re both more than capable enough to handle that, Marshal,” he mocks and holds his hand out impatiently. With an easy motion the other man tosses him a blade before choosing one for himself, and Titus makes a show of inspecting the blunted edge while the Marshal approaches the center of the room to take up his stance. 

“First to land a fatal blow wins the round?” Titus nods, not feeling the need to respond further while he takes his own stance. 

So the dance begins. For a while they circle each other slowly, carefully calculating every move from the short steps to the subtlest twitch of fingers. Deep steadying breaths keep him calm as his focus narrows to the other man, and the marshal lunges quick as a snake. He parries the first strike easily and arcs his blade up and around to counter the next blow. It’s obvious that while the marshal may be a master swordsman his movements reflect his preference for the long blade he typically wields, something that Titus could use to his advantage if his opponent wasn’t so damn quick. 

It continues, testing strikes and sharp movements that gain speed as they carry on, evenly matched for the spar at least. They’re both holding back, a carefully disguised restraint in the way their blade’s meet as they size one another up. There’s not enough time to examine everything, they only have the space free for less than half an hour, but Titus still catalogs every move for the future. 

Marshal Leonis feints right and Titus is smart enough to stay his pursuit, bringing his blade up in time to catch the blow on his left. Such speed and precision was impressive and would have meant a swift end to their spar had Titus not been experienced enough to know better than to fall into such blatant traps. While the marshal was faster, Titus had more strength, and while his feet didn’t move with near the same speed his blade certainly did. Another quick counter and Titus finally begins his assault, jabbing with quick thrusts and slashes that may not match the marshal’s precision but certainly keep him on his toes. He lets more power flow into his next strike and the marshal gives just enough ground that Titus sees the opening and takes it, eager to end this before they draw any sort of audience.

With a large sweep upwards he gets the man’s low stance to open just enough to spin his blade around for the killing blow. His blade stops a hairsbreadth from the tender flesh of the marshal’s side, but there’s a cold kiss of metal against his neck that lets him know that he has in no way won this little match of theirs. It’s a draw, and that doesn’t sit well with him. 

“Well, Captain, we seem to be at an impasse.” The marshal’s tone is light, he sounds almost impressed. Neither of them have broken much of a sweat, and their breathing, while slightly deeper than before, remains slow and controlled.

“Indeed,” Titus replies. He’s long since mastered the art of masking his emotions, so he easily files away his unease, hiding it with a smirk. A part of him genuinely enjoyed the spar, it’s been far too long since Titus Drautos has had a proper challenge with no pressure beyond pride. So he focuses on that, and pushes Glauca’s concerns to the back of his mind for now. 

“You certainly live up to your reputation, your strength is truly impressive.” Titus raises a brow at the compliment, searching the Marshal’s face and finding nothing, he’s not the only one talented at masking their true intentions and he refuses to let his guard down. 

“Was this a test, Marshal?” 

“Simple curiosity, and it’s been quite a while since I’ve been given a run for my money.”

“Perhaps I should test your reputation when next we meet. After all I made no effort to kill you this time.” There’s a dark truth to that, but the marshal simply accepts the grim humor with a light chuckle. 

“Next time then,” he replies but his expression turns serious a moment later. “I will admit that I had my doubts about the Kingsglaive. I thought it unnecessary, reckless, a waste of the Crystal’s power. But you and your men have proved me wrong, Captain, and I owe you an apology.”

“So you did have a reason for our little bout,” Titus says in lieu of accepting the statement, but his dismissal doesn’t sway the marshal, who simply smirks and shakes his head. 

“I did, and I’m glad I decided to act.” He makes his way over to the weapon rack to replace the training sword, holding out his hand until Titus tosses him his as well, which he catches deftly by the hilt. “Like I said, it's been quite some time since a spar has had me on my toes.” 

“I could say the same,” he admits. Nothing beats a good fight, the tension leaving him with every passing moment now that the spar has ended, the outcome no longer a concern for now. 

“Perhaps a rematch is in order.”

“A chance to better the legendary Immortal? I look forward to it.”

“Until next time then, Captain.” Marshal Leonis makes his way out of the training room the a curt yet friendly wave and it appears that all their former animosity has dissipated with the blows exchanged during the spar. 

I may have to kill this man.

A thought that comes suddenly as he watches the man go, and he accepts it as the truth, dangerous though the conflict may be. If it comes to a fight between General Glauca of the Empire and Cor The Immortal of Lucis then he intends to have the upper hand.

~X~

As the days and weeks pass the Kingsglaive improves. Titus watches his soldiers master the techniques they’d hardly pulled off during their first mission, something that stirs the smallest feeling of pride in his chest. If for nothing else he’s glad of it for their coming assignment, a counter offensive near the Duscae border in three days time. This time Titus does not fear the outcome, he is confident in their abilities now, and even more so in the likelihood of another victory. Perhaps the strangest part of it all is the fact that Marshal Leonis has become suddenly civil since their spar, almost amiable on the rare occurrences when they run into one another. It’s strange how a man’s opinion can change with so simple an act as a spar, and one so brief to boot. He’s a smart enough man to not question small fortunes however, and having the respect of Marshal Leonis is such a feat. If anything it's one less thing to worry about considering his plate is already rather full when it comes to such things.

Still, it is hard to become used to respect after so much blatant distaste. The Glaive’s themselves feel it too, he can tell by the way their shoulders stiffen when they catch sight of Marshal Leonis making his way down the hall. Titus makes to intercept him before he can make it into the courtyard, meeting him at the stairs just in time. He gestures at the man to follow him, and the marshal obliges without question, until they’re both back in the hall while the Glaives squint past the pillars to try and get an idea of what was going on. For now he ignores them and focuses on the man before him. 

“What brings you to Glaive HQ today, Mashal?”

“A peace offering,” he replies, and Titus raises a brow as he’s handed an old weathered looking file.

“I was under the impression that we had made peace, Marshal.” 

“Then call it trust.” His expression is unreadable, as blank and composed as his own, and Titus would be a fool to call him nervous. “It's some old training reports from the Crownsguard, thought they might be of use.” For a man like the marshal it was an honor, a trust to be given such a thing, especially considering where they’d started. Titus takes the file with a nod, something akin to gratitude in the gesture with no intention of taking such support for granted. Where their spar had forged respect, this truly was an olive branch, the delicate beginning of trust. 

“I appreciate the gesture, Marshal, it's good to know the Kingsglaive has your support.”

“It’s the least I can do to make amends,” the marshal replies, and Titus shakes his head with a short huff. 

“You may have earned my respect, but that’s only the first step, the Glaives are not so easily won. You haven’t exactly given them the best impression.”

“And how would you suggest going about that?”

“You’re a smart man, Marshal, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” And Titus leaves him there to mull it over.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you all to know that this was the one completely unplanned chapter and I 100% pulled the entire thing out of my ass but it ended up better than I was expecting so I am not going to complain (except i am). Not my favorite chapter but we're getting there I think. And as usual a lot of this story gets away from me.  
> I'm very excited for the next chapter since it's essentially the thought that started this ship for me.  
> Thanks again to all of you reading it means the world and I hope I'm doing these characters a modicum of justice. 
> 
> unbetad

With a slow but growing frequency Titus finds himself in the training room locked in false combat with The Immortal. Night falls before they meet after their work of the day, more convenient than their first during the peak of the day. They spar as long as they care to without risk of interruption as the Citadel quiets in the darkness and sleep calls those who can. Titus hardly sleeps as it is, and a harsh outlet for his energy is preferred even if that were the case. Apparently the marshal shares that, because here they are again, circling each other on the marble, each sound loud in his ears. 

“I thought of something,” his opponent says as their blades meet again. Titus raises a brow.

“Careful, Marshal, too much of that and you’ll become a politician.” The man chuckles, stepping back a step but keeping his stance ready for the spar to continue. 

“Doubtful,” he replies as Titus follows through with a strong blow that forces him to retreat further. “How would the Glaives react to a joint training session with the new Crownsguard recruits?” Abruptly Titus stops his assault as he mulls over the question. 

“As long as the recruits have no quarrel with refugees I expect some healthy competition.” Then he thrusts the blade forward to resume the spar, but both of their strokes lack the usual ferocity. 

“When would be best?” Another sharp ring as the swords meet and part between them.

“Friday. We run a few harsh drills and give them the night to cool off, get drinks.” This time when he lowers his sword it stays down, he has no focus for the spar now. The marshal follows suit, holding out his hand for the other sword which Titus gives without thought. This habit of theirs has become natural, an easy system that makes his skin itch. “The Glaives need to know they have respect outside themselves or they will never be what the Council wants.”

“Are you saying they lack loyalty?”

“Of course not,” he snaps, then quells the sudden defensive anger with a deep inhale. “The Glaives are more loyal than most because of their circumstance, but they will never be like the Crownsguard towards Insomnia.” He makes for the bench where his cape sits waiting and sets to putting it on like the leather and metal will cage in his unintended openness. “At least this will give them something beyond duty.” Something perhaps he shouldn’t share, or encourage for that matter, but in the end it changes nothing. 

“Speaking from experience?” An innocent enough question that sets Titus on edge and the easy back and forth they had withers and dies. The man realizes his mistake too late, and before any sort of apology can leave him Titus is already at the doors of the training room. 

“Have your recruits at Glaive HQ no later than noon on Friday,” he says, loud enough for his voice to carry through the large space. Then the door is slamming behind him, and he’s winding his way through the Citadel halls with an quick ease that makes every turn blur together. It’s no better than running away, but Titus doesn’t care.

~X~

For the rest of the week Titus is in a foul mood, a deep swing of irritability and sharp temper that usually stems from summoning Glauca and seems misplaced in the routine he’s fallen into. Without the strain of the armor he has no real excuse for his change in mood except his conversation with the marshal, and he has yet to accept the mere idea that the man managed to get under his skin. He’d come dangerously close to the truth, and Titus wasn’t sure what bothered him more, that or the fact that he was so shaken by it. Such things didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, but he had to admit that it had been nice to unwind with a spar every few months. Foolishly he wonders if the damage can be undone or if his interactions with the marshal will return to harsh glares and terse words. Not that it matters and not that he cares.

Unfortunately for the Glaives they receive the brunt of his frustration. Their drills and exercises for the rest of the week are especially harsh, and he sees more scrapes and bruises than he has since those first days in the arena. To their credit they know something is amiss, that their captain’s current mood, while no fault of their own, has been caused by something. He’s sure not a single one of them could guess why, but he knows they’ll assume it to be the Council, and he sees no reason to correct them. 

By the time Friday comes Titus has calmed, but there’s still a tense unease that lingers, festering like a wound not properly tended. Amongst the Glaives he sees mixed emotions, some seem excited by the coming training session while most bear their wariness openly. In all truth he’s glad to see both, if he’s lucky this plan will work and the future benefits will be worth the trouble. Regardless they enjoy their lax morning by simply hanging about the training yard, perched on steps or clustered in small groups, like a gaggle of children enjoying their freedom before school. It reminds him that many of them are teenagers and most are hardly into adulthood, something he shouldn’t think about. 

“Glaives,” he calls when it's almost noon, and he only needs to say it once to get their attention. “I know you all have mixed feeling about the joint training session today, but I assure you that it will benefit you all as long as you keep the peace.” 

“I thought the Crownsguard hated us, sir,” Axis says from his place by Tredd and Sonitus, he was usually one of the quieter Glaives and his comment came with an honest curiosity. 

“Many of them do, but the Marshal is trying to bridge that gap.”

“I thought he hated us too,” Tredd adds with a skeptical look and a scoff. A reprimand sits ready on his tongue, but he has no reason to defend the marshal, and less reason to scold the boy for a statement not so far from the truth. 

“Not quite, and we both realized that wasn’t doing any good. We fight for hearth and home, but we also fight for Lucis now, and it would be best not to be hated by those we serve. I expect you all to be at your best, if this goes south it will be no fault of the Glaives. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good, now make ready.” The Glaives disperse to clear the center of the arena, lining up against the curved walls or sitting atop them, filling the open air with nervous energy as they waited. 

Not ten minutes later and right on time the Marshal makes his entrance, seven anxious looking recruits trailing after him like frightened chocobo chicks scurrying after their mother. Such a ridiculous image is enough to soothe the tense set of his shoulders and his stiff posture loosens into something less defensive. They stop ten paces away from him, the central pillar of the arena acting as the axis of some unseen divide between the two military forces of Lucis. For this to work they must bridge that gap, if only a little. 

“Marshal,” Titus nods, and lets his gaze sweep over the recruits the man has brought with him.. 

“Captain Drautos,” he replies with a nod, and then much to Titus’s surprise, turns to the Glaives. “Brave soldiers of the Kingsglaive, I must foremost apologize for my behavior towards you all, it was unfair to you and the sacrifices you have made in the service of Lucis. Let this be the first step towards amends between the Kingsglaive and the Crownsguard.” As if that wasn’t enough he gives a half bow, a gesture he’s only seen the man give the king himself, and he can see the awe and disbelief wash through his soldiers. 

“Strong words, Marshal,” Titus says and it's a struggle to keep his voice from revealing his surprise. “Now how about we get this training session underway?”  
“Of course.” The marshal turns to his recruits, quiet words passing between the group for a few moments until four of the Crownsguard trainees step forward, backs ramrod straight in perfect attention even though Titus can practically smell their unease. He gets the Marshal’s intention without clarification. 

“Luche, Pelna, Sonitus, Nyx, front and center.” They’re quick to oblige. 

“There’s no better place to learn how to adapt on the battlefield, but the next best thing is to learn from someone who was taught differently. Pair off and start with the basics, the goal is to learn. And if the need ever arises for the Crownsguard and the Kingsglaive to work together it will be a seamless transition.” A smart strategy, and one Titus could use to his advantage if need be. 

“You heard the Marshal, give them your best, but keep it fair. Until I see an MT warp with my own eyes there will be none of that here.” He gives Nyx a particularly pointed look with that and receives not even a twitch in response. 

“Yes, sir,” Luche replies first, always the first to follow orders, always taking even the barest inch towards a more commanding role. He pairs off with the first Crownsguard recruit who had followed the same command, and the rest follow into pairs before they have to be asked again. 

After a quick set of instructions from their commanding officers they set to sparring in different parts of the yard, quickly surrounded by Glaives and Crownsguard alike, mingling and melding far more easily than Titus had anticipated. All he can do is stand back and watch, gaze jumping between the different groups, the new camaraderie almost hard to believe. Out of the corner of his eye he catches the marshal cast an all too pleased look his way, they don’t speak, they don’t need to, and the fragile peace between them settles once and for all. One step, that's all it was, an olive branch offered and accepted and it all calms, and Titus feels one of the countless weights lift from his shoulders.

~X~

By the time five o'clock comes around training has dissolved more into socializing than actual practice, but then again that was the point of this whole ordeal. The gathered soldiers fall quiet as he approaches, like he’s coming to reprimand them for their lack of work, and on any other night he would but he simply dismisses them with the smallest hint of praise. Once the meaning of his words click they practically scramble, but he notices how some of the Glaives linger.

“You all did well today, now go on and celebrate it, it's not every day this sort of thing happens,” the marshal says as he steps up beside him, and the Crownsguard disperse, the remaining Glaives going along with them and he can hear the laughter that trails after them. 

“I wanted to apologize, for what I said the other day.”

“There’s no need,” he says on reflex. 

“Yes there is,” he insists, “ it was out of turn. I should know better by now than to doubt you or the Kingsglaive. It was insensitive, and I apologize for any offense I made.” How ever long it had been since he’d been given a genuine apology was too long for him to remember. Still the fact that the marshal was giving this to him now was more than he’d ever expected from any Lucian he’d come to work with. Though such open words made him squirm beneath his composure. 

“I don’t take such words lightly, Marshal. Thank you, for giving the Kingsglaive a proper chance.” It’s all he offers, but the marshal takes it with a thoughtful hum and steps away, looking like somethings on his mind. 

“Well I must admit this worked out better than I expected,” he says, and Titus has the suspicion that it’s not quite what he wanted to say. 

“Indeed, I suppose we owe our soldiers a little more credit.”

“That we do,” the marshal nods and then heads for the stairs. With a foot on the first step he pauses and looks back over his shoulder. “Captain Drautos, when next we spar there will be no holding back.” 

“I look forward to it, Marshal.”

~X~

The world burns around him, his little village crumbling as Niflheim crushes it beneath it's boot. Screams seem to echo in his head, all muddling together into an endless wail only cut by the sound of those dreaded engines and the mechanical clanking and screeching of the Empire’s latest horrors. Titus doesn’t know how long he’s been running through the streets trying to get people to safety, slashing desperately at faceless soldiers he doesn’t understand. He’s fifteen and everything he’s ever known is being ripped out from under him. Amidst the smoke and dust he spots a lone figure in the street, walking along so casually that for a moment the sounds of war fade away. Then he hears it, a soft humming, a disjointed cheerful tune that send chills down his spine, reminiscent of a local lullaby his mother used to sing but twisted into something sinister. Still the figure wanders without cause, twirling an umbrella despite the only thing raining down being ashes, and all the while humming that haunting song. No matter how fast he runs he can never catch up and the sun falls into the horizon. Daemons cry into the night, and though he can’t see them, he hears their scuttling steps following him through the dark. Somehow the figure is closer and Titus reaches out for the black fabric of a long sleeve, suddenly older, still desperate for answers, desperate for the slaughter to end. The figure turns, and Ardyn Izunia grins.

He jolts awake in a cold sweat. That same old nightmare. It’s been a long while since the skewed memories last haunted his dreams, but it's always the same, and he always wakes the moment before he sells his soul. With a sigh he sits up in bed, what meager moonlight filters through the curtains not enough for him to read the clock on the wall across from him. Instead he gropes for his phone on the small bedside table, not quite ready to turn on the lamp and flood the room in too bright light. As it is the screen of his phone is blinding and he has to squint for a moment until the blurred numbers come into focus. 2AM mocks him in white font and he heaves a defeated sigh. The chances of him falling back asleep are slim, but he remains in his small bed anyway, gazing into the darkness and willing his body to rest for at least a few more hours. 

For a while he dozes, thoughts blissfully blank as his mind rests in that odd place between sleep and wakefulness. When he checks his alarm next it's hardly been an hour and a half, but he takes it, content to lie and think until his body began to crave motion. Constant practice keeps his mind from drifting to the Empire, it only haunts him now in dreams. Instead he thinks of menial things, from the drills he’ll run to the progress the Glaives have made, until the settle rather unexpectedly on the marshal. Titus can’t figure him out, a mystery of a man whose motives he has yet to understand. Of course it could be that he’s searching for motives that aren’t there, but the concept of Insomnia’s prized Immortal genuinely caring about the Kingsglaive in any sense while much of his fellows can hardly spare them a thought is hard to grasp. Their conversation on the steps held truth, and Titus need only accept it and use it to his advantage. The thought doesn’t stick, and he abruptly feels unpleasant and restless.

With a huff he throws away the old worn sheet he sleeps beneath, tugs at the old lamp string until it illuminates his small apartment, and rises from his bed with a sigh. Padding through the chilled apartment on bare feet is as systematic as everything he does. The scent of coffee soon fills the air as Titus dresses in the base of his uniform with practiced movements, his sword and cape waiting in his office to truly start the day. He chugs the drink once it's ready, still piping in the mug he’d poured it into, and then makes his way out of the apartment. 

He’s not alone. The flickering lights above cast a long shadow across the wall.

“It’s a little late for you to be out isn’t it?” The figure jumps, and a bag comes flying his way. Titus catches it easily, the light plastic crinkling in his hand as the contents shake. 

“Mister Drautos! Sorry, sir!” The boy, his neighbor across the hall and no older than thirteen calms. “Nan’s sick, so I ran to get her medicine from the night clinic. Didn’t know you left for work so early.” He approaches slowly and Titus holds out the bag for him to take. 

“It’s dangerous to be out so late,” he says and the boy nods, stepping back towards his door with the bag clasped in a twisting grip. They rarely see each other, but the boy knows him, knows where to deliver the week's worth of groceries Titus pays him for, anything to keep away from the crowds of people at the market. 

“I’ll be careful, thank you, and I’ll have those groceries dropped off on Monday same as always.” 

“Of course,” he nods and the boy disappears into his apartment. Titus stands there fighting old memories in the dim corridor. Errant thoughts buzz at the edges of his mind that he dismisses with a swift shake of his head, continuing his way out of the building. 

There’s a long walk ahead through the darkness to Glaive HQ, but as long as most of the city sleeps it's an easy one, just how he prefers it. Before dawn the stars and lights make Insomnia glow in a way that was almost ethereal, like it was a star itself. Admittedly it was beautiful, a truth he was reminded of every early walk he took, but it was not more beautiful than home, not to him, and he always keeps walking, never once stopping to admire the sights of the city he would one day help ruin.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally to the idea that started it all and put me in an absolute pit with this ship.  
> If I update this before August I will be both shocked and awed so I hope this chapter is a good hold over. 
> 
> unbetad  
> (you all deserve a medal for reading this unedited I am officially sorry, maybe when its all done I'll have it betad/edited up etc)

A quick fist jabs him hard in the gut, the impact softened only slightly by the leather of his armor. For a hand to hand spar they’re overdressed, which is perhaps for the best he thinks as another sharp punch lands on his other side. Again he’s reminded of how fast the marshal is, years of training coming through in perfect form and incredible speed. He’s not exactly sure why he’d agreed to this particular suggestion at this point. Mixing up their now frequent spars had been a perfect offer, but he is admittedly beneath his opponent's level of experience when it came to this. 

His one real advantage remains his strength, and he uses it now in a punch to the marshal’s gut. The marshal isn’t quick enough to dodge back after his last barrage and he staggers back, winded. Titus takes the opening, sweeping his leg around and knocking his opponent off his feet. It’s no win. As his back hits the thin mats beneath them he’s already springing back to his feet with a strong push of his arms. Despite his focus Titus lets his surprise take his attention for a moment and nearly earns a foot to the head for his trouble, hardly bringing his arm up to block the high kick in time. Somehow the only thought that sticks is how impressive the marshal’s flexibility is, to get his kick so high and straight with one foot on the ground. The other foot connects with the back of his knee while he’s distracted and Titus staggers, barely catching the arm swinging towards him as the marshal makes to finish the match. His grip tightens like a vice and twists and the marshal is forced to follow least he resist and risk dislocating his shoulder. 

“I thought I might find you here, Cor, though I must admit this is a surprise. You’ll have to pardon my intrusion.” Titus feels his whole body tense at the sudden interruption, and he releases the marshal’s arm instantly. All the relaxing his body had done over the course of the spar disappears and he curses himself for his lack of observance. How had he not heard the door open?

“Clarus,” the marshal steps away, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his uniform jacket as the king’s sworn shield approaches. “Has something happened?”

“Nothing dire no, I simply wanted to discuss the new regiment you suggested for the Crownsguard before I went looking for Captain Drautos, which I see is unnecessary.” Titus nods his acknowledgment. 

“Did you need something, sir?” He moves over to the bench where the rest of his gear lays and quickly sets to putting it on, feeling somehow caught somewhere he shouldn’t be. Or at least in company he has no business keeping. 

“His Majesty wanted to speak with you when you had the time. He’s waiting in the council chamber.” 

“Then I won’t keep him waiting,” he replies, glancing between the two men before making a hasty exit. Being interrupted has always been a possibility, he and the marshal are busy men, constantly at risk of being called away to their duties, but something about this leaves him feeling exposed as he makes his way to the king’s audience chamber. 

Maybe it was Amicitia, what he was, what he represented, or maybe it was the surprised arch of his brow as he saw them sparring. He shakes the thoughts from his head, it doesn’t matter, and dwelling on it does nothing. Next time he meets the marshal for a spar they’ll break the stalemate, and perhaps he’ll lock the door.

~X~

Sure enough the king awaits him in the council chamber, staring out the window with his hands clasped behind his back, obviously favoring his left leg. When he hears the door open he turns and greets Titus with a momentary surprise, brows lifting high. Just the two of them here, oh how easy it would be to end him now, slip his sword between his ribs and watch the life bleed from his eyes. But vengence is not due this day, and Titus clenches his eager fist hard instead.

“Captain Drautos, I didn’t expect you so soon.” Titus bows, a wretchedly automatic and familiar motion. 

“Lord Amicitia is rather good at finding people it would seem.” 

“That he is,” Regis chuckles lightly, all warmth and trust. This is the man that let his home be taken to rot. Titus breathes deep, swallows his rage, and forces the barest hint of a smile in return, teeth clenched beneath it. “Forgive me, Drautos, I haven’t even told you why I asked for you so suddenly.” 

“Is there some pressing matter?”

“No, no, it's nothing of concern I assure you,” he says, and Titus tries to relax his stance even though it has nothing to do with the king’s summons and everything to do with his mere presence. “I have yet to thank you, Drautos, for all the Kingsglaive has done.” Titus can’t hide his surprise. 

“Your Majesty?” 

“For years you and your Glaives have served Lucis and I have yet to give you the proper thanks. Time and time again you have brought me back impossible victories I had all but stopped imagining,” he pauses, looking out the window once more, almost seeming to be lost in thought until he looks back at him. “The Kingsglaive has given me some hope, given all of Insomnia hope, and I have yet to thank any of you for it. So thank you, Drautos, it's about time Insomnia showed gratitude to it’s new defenders.” Words fail him, so Titus bows his head low, hiding his expression until it settles once more into something blank. 

“I don’t know what to say your majesty,” he replies, one of the few honest things he has ever told the king. 

“There is no need to say anything, I should have thanked you long ago, and the Glaives as well, there is little else I can do all things considered, but I owed that at least.” 

“The Kingsglaive will not soon forget it, Your Majesty, such things mean more to them than you know. But I must ask what prompted this.”

“Cor brought up some fair points after that joint training session of yours,” he says as if it's nothing important, but that too surprises Titus more than he cares to admit. The marshal’s change of heart about the Glaives still catches him off guard. Such a gesture deserved thanks of some sort, maybe. Regis speaks again before he can get lost in his musings, a blessed distraction. “And I wanted to discuss opening up the tasks beyond border defense to the Glaives, you and your men are not always out at war, and since the worked so well with the Crownsguard I see no issue in integrating them into some of those task if you thought it beneficial.”

“Idle hands are best kept busy, Your Majesty. Nothing hones patience like guard duty.” Again Regis chuckles, soft and warm. 

“So it does. You can discuss the details with Clarus and Petra by tomorrow. That is all.”

“Your Majesty,” he says with a parting bow, eager to be far from this man. 

“Thank you again, Drautos,” the king says in parting, and Titus just barely nods before he leaves the man behind.

~X~

Being captain of the Kingsglaive is, perhaps, more trouble than it's worth. At least it feels that way now, pouring over file after file, some information valuable, most of it political drivel that Titus could care less about. All for tradition, all for show, nothing to touch but papers depicting what was done that day. It’s been three years since the Kingsglaive had been formed and somehow Titus thought the paperwork would become less of a chore. He rubs hard at his temples and lets out a long sigh, almost missing the soft knock on the door of his office. For a second he wonders if he can simply ignore it, but resigns himself to his fate by the third rap of knuckles.

“Come in,” he calls, lifting the nearest paper up to read. He half expects Luche to appear in the doorway and offer to help or ask for a task to complete like he so often does, ever eager for more power. 

“Forgive my intrusion, Captain, I didn’t expect you to still be so busy.” Definitely not Luche. He tears his eyes away from the document in his hand, logistics from the hard drill he’d run the Glaves through that morning, and locks eyes with the last person he expected to see. 

“Nothing of any importance now,” he replies because it’s mostly true. “What can I do for you, Marshal?” 

“Well I was going to ask to exchange training reports, but you look like you could use a drink.”

“A drink?”

“Yes, a drink, a strong one maybe,” Marshal Leonis says with the barest hint of a wry grin, he’s apparently in high spirits. Admittedly he’s torn, caught between his insistent desire to stay as solitary as possible and his current need for a glass of something that would hopefully ease the ache between his eyes. If he says no he risks coming off as suspiciously reclusive, which won’t gain him any sort of trust. On top of it all, though he hates to admit it, is a deep loneliness, an isolation that is slowly driving him mad in the quiet hours spent with none but himself for company. Really it’s the best course of action to accept, at least that's the reasoning he has, and it's a good excuse.

“I suppose a drink wouldn’t hurt,” he says at last and the pleased expression creeping onto the marshal’s face doesn’t go unnoticed. He pulls out his phone and taps something out with a quick thumb before slipping it back into his pocket as Titus’s phone buzzes on his desk in response, an address lighting up the screen. 

“Meet me there once you’ve finished up, first round’s on me.” As sudden as he came he’s gone and Titus almost feels dazed at the whole ordeal. 

Such an invitation seems out of the blue. The Glaive’s would get drinks frequently, it helped build camaraderie, but he’d denied the handful of invitations they’d given him. Yet he accepted the marshal’s offer. Titus sags in his seat, letting out a long sigh as he shoves the papers in front of him aside and rubs at his face. Really there’s no rush for the paperwork, and if he waits much longer he might just not go. He considers it, just not going, but he can’t bring himself to follow through, unable to shake the sudden want for alcohol and company.

~X~

The bar the marshal directed him to is a small thing on the edge of Insomnia’s upper district, the same side of town as his apartment. Points for unwitting convenience. Titus can’t help but cast a calculating eye over everything as he approaches, it's hard not to when he can hardly remember the last time he was in such a public space. Inside is blessedly uncrowded, a few people sitting at the bar and a single pair of old men occupying one of the booths, apparently arguing, and in the far corner sits the marshal. Weaving between the small tables Titus approaches, not quite apprehensive but unsure of what exactly to do. When he spots him the marshal raises a glass in greeting, and Titus takes a seat. It’s not at all what he expected, though that gives the man sitting across from him less credit than he’s proven to deserve.

“This is quite the place, Marshal,” Titus says as he sits.

“A real hidden gem,” he replies, though the look in his eyes leads Titus to believe he knows exactly what was left unsaid. Before he can throw a quip back there’s a waitress at the table and he orders a beer before she can linger too long, only half paying attention to what it is he’ll be drinking. Frankly he doesn’t care at this point as long it gets him to relax. Like he’s reading his mind the marshal takes another sip of his drink and says, “It’s nice to find a place without a crowd.”

“There’s enough of that at the Citadel,” Titus replies and the marshal chuckles. 

“That there is.” Just then his drink arrives without comment and Titus picks it up as soon as it hits the table, taking a long swig. It’s cold and bitter, some draft from Leide as dry as the land it was brewed in and exactly what he needed, the alcohol easing him into a borderline relaxation. . 

“Why did you ask me here?” Titus says after a moment, shattering the companionable silence that had fallen between them as they drank. His discussion with King Regis comes to mind and he wonders, idle and patient, as he waits for a reason.

“We’re colleagues for starters, and we’ve been sparring for just shy of two years and I still don’t know a damn thing about you.” 

“Not much to know.” Cor arches a brow.

“Where are you from?” Damn him the tension is back, and he’s half tempted to get up and leave but he stays, eyes narrowing instead.

“I know you must have read my file, Marshal.” 

“Cavaugh’s a big place,” he replies with a shrug. 

“A little village by the sea you’ve never heard of.” Where the sea breeze kissed his cheeks on mornings spent fishing off the beach, where everything was so much softer before war came to ruin it. 

“That’s something.” It's a simple reply, followed by another drink until the glass is empty and the marshal signals the bartender for another. He leaves it at that, letting things settle between them as they drink, soft music and patron’s voices swirling around the bar until Titus feels at ease once more. 

“Have you ever seen the ocean, Marshal?” he asks because now that the memories of home linger in his head it’s all he can think of and he needs to speak. 

“No need to be so formal, Drautos, at least not here.” Their eyes meet across the table and Titus nods, taking another sip of his drink while he waits for the man’s answer. “And yes, years ago when I was young, I didn’t truly take in the sights like I should have back then, but I remember it was beautiful.” Titus hums in agreement, and their common ground expands a little more. 

Discussion stays on simple topics after that. Missions and training and all manner of day to day topics they relate on, from meetings to subordinates. Near the end of his second drink Titus feels more relaxed then he has in years, watching the marshal- Leonis, he corrects himself, with apt attention. 

“-and when I turned the corner they all froze, half a dozen Crownsguard recruits coated in chalk looking absolutely terrified,” the marshal finishes his story with a fond shake of his head, cheeks dusted a light pink as he nurses his third drink. 

“So you admit the Crownsguard isn’t so perfect afterall,” Titus says, almost teasing, an odd tone to be coming from him. 

“Like herding cats some days.” 

“Not so different from the Kingsglaive then.”

“Oh really? I’d think the Kingsglaive would be more like coeurls, what with all the magic.”

Laughter bursts from him sudden and true, and he almost doesn’t recognize the sound it’s been so long. Titus can’t recall the last time he laughed this sort of genuine mirth. Somehow the joke gets him, maybe the alcohol has made his humor loose, either way he laughs and Leonis laughs with him. It almost hurts after so long without, and when his laughter finally fades and he can feel the heat of humor in his cheeks he feels better than he has in years. He finishes his drink in a few deep gulps, wetting his suddenly dry throat and avoiding having to speak after such an open display. Leonis simply smiles at him across the table, not the dry grin he's seen in the past, something secret in his eyes, and it feels almost like he’s made a friend. Some sort of impossible thing. 

_I may have to kill this man._

For the first time the thought tastes sour. A bitter pill of truth that's almost hard to choke down, but Titus does it. The first bud of friendship in twenty years wasn’t enough to forsake everything he’d worked for. Nothing was worth that. In the end he would turn on the marshal like he would turn on the rest of this damned city. Perhaps there would be some sort of remorse, somewhere beneath the righteous feel of revenge, but it would pass as all things do. Leonis would likely die with the rest, and Titus would not mourn him. But for now he could enjoy the small comfort of company, clinging to whatever humanity he has left. 

As the hour grows late he knows it draws to a close. He’d stopped drinking after his bout of laughter, unwilling to let himself show such openness again. The cool night air sobers him of his gentle buzz almost instantly, but still he feels light, lighter than he’s felt in far too long. 

“Thank you, Leonis, this- I needed this,” he trails off, not sure what to say, how to express the gratitude for all he now owes this man. 

“We both did, Monica always tells me every soldier needs a break.” 

“Wise words,” Titus agrees. The city sounds are quieter here, muffled by the alleys and the late hour, leaving them relatively alone under the dim light of the old street lamps. 

“Perhaps we can do this again, when it gets to be too much.” There’s an almost question in those words, an almost hope. Titus knows he shouldn’t, not after the revelation he had inside, but there’s nothing stopping him, nothing will hold him back from his goal, certainly not drinks. In truth he needs it, needs that small grounding bit of company if he intends to carry this through to the end. 

“I’d like that,” he replies after a while, almost lost to the faint sounds of the city. 

Leonis doesn't say anything else, doesn’t need to. They part ways with simple goodbyes and a promise for a next time hidden in the silence, and when Titius settles down in his old creaking bed he sleeps through the night, and his nightmares are almost gentle.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly this chapter had zero plan or direction when I started it and is honestly a bit of a filler but I didn't expect to update this month so even though I feel it's not my strongest bit in this fic I'll take it.   
> Really excited for the next chapters though.
> 
> unbetad still and hardly read because im crazy busy

Night falls upon the field and with it a sudden hush. Niflheim had put up a greater fight than they had ever encountered in their counter strikes before, the entire day burned out with fighting wave after wave of incoming infantry. More dead and wounded now than they’d ever suffered. None of them trust the darkness, waiting with bated breath for daemons to appear. Titus expects them, they’ve been Niflheim’s ace since he can remember, knows their patterns first hand from both sides and knows those damn daemons better than he’d like. His anxiety spreads through the Glaives, those near him twitch with it, and he knows those outside his line of sight are buzzing with their own nerves. They’re waiting for him to call a retreat, and he knows he should, but he waits, not trusting the darkness or the way he almost jumps at shadows. But the telltale sound of coming daemons doesn’t come even as the minutes tick into an hour and Titus knows that the victory is theirs, though he knows it's not so simple. Still he calls the retreat, and the Glaives load up into the vans and begin the long drive back to Insomnia, grim and silent in their victory.

~X~

They arrive as dawn begins to break, creeping tendrils of light spreading through the city.

He has Luche drop him off at the Citadel, ordering the Glaive back to HQ until he can meet them to assess the damage, and the sooner he gives his report the better. It’s not the Council that waits for him in the meeting room, but Clarus Amacitia and the king in their usual seats. Titus stops in the doorway, looking between them for one curious moment before bowing low. 

“Your Majesty, I have my report.” 

“Yes of course,” Regis replies, the rough rasp of a man who is hardly awake. Given the hour Titus can’t say he’s surprised, but he takes it as slight like all things from the king, and gives his report with all the polite brevity he can muster. 

“So it was a victory?”

“Yes,” he replies, leaving out the strangeness of it, the fact that even he did not trust Niflheim’s retreat. 

“And your losses?” 

“Still to count, but we lost more today then the last year, many are wounded-” he looks between the two men before him, he must be careful in how he words this, “the Crystal’s magic took a toll, many of my Glaives are wounded from it's power, it was not meant for such extensive use.”

“I see, we will discuss this later then, when we have more time. For now you and your men need rest.” Titus nods, recognizing the dismissal for what it is. Before he can bow out of the room Clarus stops him. 

“Lucis owes you another victory it seems,” he says, and it's a genuine sort of gratitude filled praise that Titus has yet to see from the man. 

“For hearth and home,” He replies. And when he makes for the door this time they do not stop him, and he heads for Glaive HQ with the haste of a man half as tired as he feels.

~X~

There’s little of the usual cheer of victory among the Glaives when he joins them. They wait in the briefing room because they were ordered to, and after years of drilling it in their discipline and patience is exactly what it needs to be. But Titus sees their exhaustion clear on their faces, recognizes how many faces he doesn’t see, wonders how many are dead and how many are wounded. Watching the ashen lightning marks spread across Nyx Ulric’s chest flashes through his mind with the clarity a fresh memory carries. How many lay wounded due to that wretched magic? How many had died because of it? Too many. For the first time Titus truly realizes the full weight of the burden placed upon the Kingsglaive. Damn Lucis and it's king.

After counting out and going over losses and injuries he feels like he might burst, exhaustion making his patience thin.

“That will be all. Rest, and know that while we may have won another victory this war is far from over. Assignments will be waiting in the briefing room tomorrow morning. Dismissed.” There was no argument from the Glaives, and they all dispersed from the mess with sagging shoulders, limping strides, or a combination of the two. Off to get some much needed rest. Tomorrow he would keep the assignments simple and the training calm. Somewhere amidst the smoke and dust of the battlefield they’d earned it. 

When they’re gone Titus lets himself sag, letting the trials of the day finally take their toll. There’s a multitude of paperwork that needs to be done before he can rest. What was that old phrase? No rest for the wicked. Titus scoffs at his own grim musings and heads up the stairs, already thinking up lofty words and marginal falsehoods to jot down for his report as he went. 

By the time he leaves his office it's dark, and for once he thinks he might sleep well once he’s in his bed. Unfortunately rest is still a ways away. He has something he must do first. 

The injured Glaives were being treated by Citadel doctors in the relatively small medical ward tucked into the back of Glaive HQ on the ground floor, a space that was admittedly used more often than it should have been. None of the injuries warranted a move into the Citadel’s own private clinic, so they remained where they were, eleven men and women packing most of the beds. It was quiet save the steady hum and beep of machinery, and Titus does his best to steel himself to the sound, locks dark memories away tight as he enters the space. There’s only one nurse left at this hour, and she nods to him once she notices his presence. He would rather not be here, but he needs to be, has to keep up the visage of hard but caring captain of the Kingsglaive no matter how much he would rather keep his distance. 

Wordlessly the nurse waves him over to the desk tucked into the back and with light steps he makes his way over until he can reach the medical reports laid neatly on the table. He reads through them with little feeling, most are common injuries of battle, a few magical burns and bullet wounds, nothing out of the ordinary. Only Nyx Ulric seems to have been afflicted by the Crystal’s magic, and it was a blatant example of overuse. 

“You actually worried about us?” A croaking voice hardly above a whisper makes him turn his attention to his left. Nyx Ulric squints over at him from the nearest bed, and while his face remains pallid he looks better than he did on the field, and he no longer reeks of burning flesh. 

The jab is as weak as the man that gives it, and Titus considers ignoring him, but while Ulric’s eyes are hardly focused that all too familiar glint remains, that same fire that had burned out of his own eyes long ago. He almost responds, but thinks better of it, he’s not even sure Ulric is really speaking to him, or some half present fever dream. 

“It won’t stop me,” the Glaive murmurs, and Titus isn’t sure it’s even directed at him. “-won’t stop ‘til there’s peace.” Predictable. Titus ignores him, ignores the way the words tear at him, and places the file in his hand back down with the others. By the time he turns around, having turned out the dazed mumblings of the injured man, Nyx Ulric is asleep again, and his addled words are shoved aside like everything else that has made Titus feel anything since that first step into Imperial terror. 

Pelna Khara greets him with a look of surprise when he opens the door leading out, needing to leave the scents and sounds and words of the ward behind him.

“Oh, Captain, I uh- sorry, sir,” he says in a rush and steps aside to let Titus through. He only makes it three steps away before the Glaive stops him. “The fight today, we didn’t really win, did we, sir?” Titus spares a glance over his shoulder. The young man picks at the bundle in his arms, a common flower that grows in abundance across Insomnia tucked between the layers of cotton. 

“It was a victory,” he says, which is only half a lie. It's a question he felt coming, and while Khara has struggled with the magic given to the Glaives, he’s always been rather observant when not blinded by optimism. His response makes Khara’s face fall, brow furrowed in thought. 

He knows the victory was a weak one, they all know, but Niflheim retreated in the end so it counts. Even if it feels like a predator playing with it's food.

~X~

When Titus arrives at his apartment later that night he’s ready for some much needed rest, thoughtlessly pulling off the underlayers of his uniform and tossing them at the chair. Without looking he tosses his phone towards his bed and finishes stripping. In the morning he’ll deal with his dust covered clothes and shower away the caked on grime from the field, but for now, sleep.

Miraculously his phone had landed on his pillows, and he grabs it, sure there’s something of importance he’d neglected since his meeting with the king. There’s not much, the typical set of meeting times and delegations emailed after noon as always, and two texts blinking unanswered from the marshal.

-Free for a drink tomorrow?-  
-Or a spar?- 

 

Titus studies them for a moment, wonders how they fell into such an easy pattern over the brief years of their odd friendship, because that's what it is, he has no other name for it, a friendship beyond all logic and reason on his part. He sighs, too tired to think about that now, and types out a response. 

-Honestly I could use both- 

With that he sets his phone on the bedside table next to the alarm he’s never once needed and only keeps for time, and lays down. Relaxation comes instantly and he drifts to sleep with an ease rarely given to him, until the nightmares wake him and the cycle continues.

~X~

Being given a day of relative reprieve makes the Glaives react in much the way he anticipated, with tired but obvious enthusiasm. Those able set to their designated tasks with gusto, and soon enough the air is clear of the familiar buzz of their chatter as they trickle out. His day will not be so easy. A meeting with the king looms on the horizon, that which was left open yesterday in need of a close, along with other tasks within the Citadel he must attend to.

It makes for a draining day, and when he finally makes his way to the training room near the tail end of the afternoon he’s more than ready to blow off all the steam that's built up over the last few days. Leonis is waiting for him, a sword already in his hand, carving through empty air. 

“Rough day?” he quips as Titus enters, and Titus can only shoot him a dry look as he makes his way to his usual bench and drapes his heavy cape over it as always, though this time it's not alone. Folded neatly on the corner sits a Crownsguard jacket, a statement in it's own way, a challenge even. Behind him Leonis chuckles, and he glances over his shoulder in time to watch him briefly. The marshal isn’t looking at him, but sure enough his arms are bare, the short sleeves of his Crownsguard fatigues flowing with his movement. 

“I’m sure you’ve been briefed,” he finally replies. Again he glances at the jacket, fists curling for a moment before he takes the unspoken challenge that’s been given to him. His finger work deftly on removing the red leather of his armor, and once he’s finished he places it atop his cape, and turns to face the marshal. 

“All the more reason for us to be here then,” Leonis says, expression changing to something new when he sees Titus without the protective layer of red. There’s a meaning to it beyond practicality, though it's taken them long to get to this point, but here they are, with no armor between them, a sign of trust in their own way. 

Titus grabs his usual weapon and takes his place opposite Leonis, and they begin to circle each other without need of words. When their blades meet in the center it's like they take all his pent up frustration from him and he falls into the movements with something that might be enjoyment. He’s not at his best, he’s still feeling the effects of a rough few days and adjusting to the vulnerability of sparring unarmored, and Leonis exploits all his minor missteps with ease. 

Leonis parries his next strike and spins away fast as ever but Titus follows, throwing his weight into a swing that turns him around and lands a decent blow on the marshal’s bare arm. His opponent hisses and leaps away, but it’s little more than a sting of pain that will do little more than bruise, and the new glint in his eye makes Titus think they should have started this ages ago. Again and again they meet and part, crossing swords in focused silence until Titus overextends a thrust, a foolish mistake, and Leonis goes for the kill. The point of his sword rests lightly over his heart, enough pressure for a slight discomfort between his ribs but nothing that will welt tomorrow. Titus drops his sword and accepts the defeat, something that he never expected to come easy, but no other thoughts haunt his head but the thrill and relief of a good spar and he doesn’t care to change it. 

“Where does that put us?” Leonis smirks, letting his blade drop to his side. “Two and Two? Or am I at three?” 

“This puts you at three,” he replies, bending down to pick up his fallen sword and holding his hand out for the one Leonis still has in an easy grip. Leonis still has that smug look on his face as he hands the sword over. Titus wraps his gloved fingers around the hilt beneath the marshal’s own and gives him a pointed look. “Careful not to let it go to your head, marshal,” he says before he pulls away, taking the sword with him to hang the weapons on the rack. 

“Of course not.” Leonis chuckles, a breathy sound from the exertion, and when Titus heads over to the bench the man is already pulling on his jacket. “I’ve got a few things to finish up, but I can meet you for drinks at seven if you’re still interested.” Drinks hold the same appeal they did last night and Titus nods as he replaces his layers of leather. 

“That works.”

“Good, I’ll see you then.” And then the marshal is gone, quicker than him to leave for a change. He’s got plenty of time until then, but Titus isn’t exactly sure what to do with it thought there’s bound to be something that can occupy his time.

~X~

Somehow Leonis beats him to there. He’s sitting in the same back table as the first night, drinks already on the table, and a plate of what Titus assumes is greasy bar food in the middle. When this became so habitual Titus can’t really say, but he makes his way over to the table and sits, immediately reaching for the bottle of stout already waiting for him.

“I took the liberty of buying the first round,” he says in greeting and Titus hums in response around the mouth of the bottle before he sets the drink back down. 

“And food aswell?” He arches a brow and Leonis shrugs, gesturing to the plate of what, upon closer inspection, appears to be bits of fried meat and vegetables all mingled together. 

“Didn’t get a chance to eat before I came, and there’s plenty for two.” Titus eyes him warily for a moment, searching for a hidden motive to the kindness he knows he won’t find.   
Part of him wants to refuse, maybe it's his pride, maybe something else, but his empty stomach aches all the same. With a sour expression tugging at his mouth he reaches out with his free hand and grabs what he hopes is a piece of meat and dips it lightly into the adjacent sauce before popping it into his mouth. A pleasant mix of flavors and textures grace his tongue. Having not eaten since morning it tastes twice as good as it ought to, and he has to try hard to mask his enjoyment. Leonis sips his drink, eyes practically laughing at him and Titus ignores him as best he can. 

“How are the Glaives? Clarus mentioned you had some wounded?” 

“They’re as good as they can be, but they’ll recover, it was nothing serious,” Titus replies, ignoring the image of skin burnt from the inside, that’s not something the marshal needs to know. Leonis nods, swirling his drink before changing the subject.

“Have you seen the last report from Fortis?” 

“About the crime drop? Yes,” he replies, scowling into his beer before taking a long drink. It was no secret that he and the head of the Watch were on less than friendly terms, but where they butted heads on most issues, he did his best to keep it from leaking into his work. 

“It has been rather dramatic yes.”

“You know that’s because of the Glaives, Drautos. Don’t you?” His brows rose at that and he met the marshal’s gaze across the table, the food and drink momentarily forgotten. 

“I fail to see how they would effect that on such a grand scale.”

“The change only started after the Glaives began being put on watch assignments.” A little detail that was hard to miss.

“Are you saying the people fear them?” The ease between them turned cold, but the marshal only shook his head, the light smile lifting the corners of his mouth making Titus brace for something he wasn’t sure of.

“No, I’m saying they give people hope.” And when Titus meets his eyes again the marshal smiles. “You should be proud, Drautos.” 

Hope. He doesn’t know what to say to that, has nothing to say, can’t speak even if he did. Hope is for fools, a cruel thing to grant the people of Insomnia when the fate of their city was set the moment he stepped within it’s magical walls. Trust and hope and kindness are all things lost to him, buried in sweet memories from long ago. Cor Leonis has proved time and time again to be the exception, and finally Titus lets his reluctance leave him, and accepts that somehow in all this, with all that the future holds, that he’s found a friend. Even if it is one he may have to kill.


	8. Interlude: The Marshal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cor's perspective proved more challenging than I anticipated, but I wanted to stick to my guns and give him a whole chapter so that's what I did. Granted most of this chapter is Cor dealing with his attraction to Titus but oh well.  
> Super excited for the next chapter, and the next ;), and thanks as always for being along for the ride.
> 
> no beta, i just die
> 
> also there's a word in here somewhere that i italicized but im tired af rn and cant find it so thats a problem to fix later

Monday drags on as they so often do, and Cor loses himself to the weekly bustle of the Citadel. His meetings are few, brief, and as uneventful as they have been for the past few years since the Crownsguard took permanent station within Insomnia’s walls. Cor has always taken a great pride in everything he does, something he has never felt the need to hide, and though his work is not near as exhilarating as it once was, he does it with the same impeccable precision he always has. Be it fighting on the field or drudging through paperwork, his performance and results are never lacking. Despite his lack of passion for paperwork he loses himself to it easily, as hours pass him by without his notice. 

Three knocks sound in quick succession on the door to his office before it opens quietly on well oiled hinges. 

“I brought you tea, ginger and black. Seemed like you needed it,” Monica sets down the large cup on the side of his desk, breaking him out of the trance that updating assignments had put him into. 

“Thank you.” He grasps the travel mug and brings it to his lips. Hot, but not enough to burn, and exactly what he needed in the middle of a busy day. His eyes scan back over the last few lines with a little more focus. 

Monica clears her throat, and when he finally looks up she’s giving him that look.

“Right, I’ll take a break. This is as good a place to stop as any.” Cor sets the papers back down and stands, stretching for a moment before meeting Monica’s eyes. She shoots him a satisfied smile and lifts the paper bag in her other hand and shakes it in front of him. 

“And I brought snacks,” she says, a twinkle in her eye, and Cor chuckles. 

“You always think of everything.” He takes the bag and checks its contents from the coffee shop near the Citadel they tend to visit whenever they have the time. How she managed to get it when her schedule was just as packed as his was beyond him, but his now rumbling stomach appreciates the gesture. 

“Well someone has to.” She takes a sip of her coffee and snags a pastry from the bag. “You’d work yourself to death if I didn’t.”

“You’re probably right,” he chuckles despite the truth of it. He tries, he does, but there’s always so much to do, always so much he needs to do. There’s a pastry in his hand though, and he’d much rather eat it then think about his own shortcomings. Instead he digs in, and enjoys the comfortable silence he and Monica always have.

“So,” she begins after the last treat has been split between them and all that’s left is the crumbs to be wiped off of fingers. “Are we still on for dinner this week? It feels like it's been ages since we’ve had the time.” Guilt weighs heavy, and he almost feels like he’s neglected their friendship. 

“Of course. Friday night? I should be finished with the recruits by four, and I won’t be going for drinks until much later.”

“Drinks again huh?” Monica raises a brow at him, searching his face for something he’d rather ignore. “With that mysterious friend of yours?”

“It’s just drinks, Monica.” A response that’s much too defensive and quick. Damn, she’s giving him that look again. 

“I know. And you know you can tell me anything.” Cor sighs. He hates keeping secrets from Monica, hates sneaking around like a teenager, but the friendship he’s forged with Drautos is delicate to say the least. Suddenly having to balance some sad semblance of a social life is just more difficult than he thought. 

“And I will, when the time is right.” He smiles, a small but true thing that seems to make her feel better. 

“Remind me why you’re not marshal?” She ignores the blatant changing of the subject with a laugh before looking him dead in the eye with a hard expression only broken by the mirth in her eyes. 

“Please, Cor, we both know you could never do my job.” And they laugh together like it hasn’t been months since they’ve spent any time together, and Cor feels better about everything.

~X~

Soft rain blankets Insomnia in a deep calm that washes away all the political tension in one blissful reprieve. A warm humidity is a small price he’s willing to pay for such weather. Inside the bar the air is a bit stifling, almost muggy with the amount of people tucked into the booths. Cor doesn’t mind it too much, he’ll lose the jacket once he gets to the table.

Much to his surprise Drautos is already there, nursing a beer with his head bowed. When he sits down across from him Drautos nods a greeting and sips slowly from his beer. A mostly empty plate sits in the middle of the table, the remains of something more substantial than standard bar food left abandoned. Cor moves his gaze from it back to Drautos, who almost looks uncomfortable. Thankfully before he can open his mouth to lighten the mood the same poor girl that's been stuck with them on most of their visits arrives to take his drink order and things ease once he has his it in front of him. 

“Dinner ran a little late, hope you weren’t waiting too long.” Drautos shrugs, gesturing to the plate with his beer before he throws it back, adam’s apple bobbing as he finishes it off. 

“I managed,” he says, a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice. They’ve done this enough that Cor knows a joke when he sees one, and a small grin tugs at the corner of his mouth until he chases it away with a drink. The glass is blissfully cold, and he presses his palms against it to chase the lingering heat of the day as the old fans in the bar struggle to keep the building cool. 

“How was the meeting with His Majesty?” 

“Wordy,” Drautos replies, face falling into something short of brooding. “His Majesty is apt at meetings that achieve nothing.” Cor raises a brow, ready to defend Regis despite himself. “There is something he wishes to discuss yet he’s failed to bring it up the last two times he’s summoned me, I can see it in his eyes.”

“Perhaps he’s waiting for the right time,” He replies, and Drautos hums his agreement, expression still sour. 

“It puts me on edge,” Drautos admits, and Cor knows he means the waiting. Part of him agrees, but there’s something in the man’s eyes, something haunted beyond the present conversation, and Cor decides to ease the issue instead of pursuing it. 

“If it were anything serious he wouldn't keep it to himself, Drautos.” Their eyes meet across the table and the man nods, sinking back into his chair and letting out a long breath. 

“Of course.” He relaxes visibly, and his face loses the almost scowl marring his handsome features. Cor jolts at the thought, a sudden stray thing that takes root and refuses to leave. It was true of course, Drautos was a handsome man, of course he’d notices, that much was plain, but he’d never allowed himself the thought. Now that it was there he couldn’t seem to shake it. 

Drautos chooses then to roll his sleeves up to his elbows, neatly bunching the black fabric of his shirt just beneath the bend of his arm. The skin there is scarred, both arms covered in more dark lines then he can count at a glance. Drautos crosses his arms across his chest and Cor tears his eyes away, refusing to stare, refusing to do much of anything except get his thoughts back on track. As the conversation drifts through unimportant things Cor gets himself in check. Finding someone he knows handsome is hardly something new, and he was older now and far more sensible. Nothing would come of it, and soon he would move on, and the unfortunate fact of the captain of the Kingsglaive being handsome could be ignored again. Until then Cor would deal with it, just like he did almost twenty five years ago, albeit with much more tact. Or so he hoped.

~X~

The sound of his footsteps echo through the halls as he hurries to the training room. He’s running late, and he can’t help but wonder if Drautos will even bother to wait for him. By the time he gets a hand on the door it's over ten minutes past their set time, and Cor opens the door expecting to see an empty room. Instead he sees Drautos going through various stances, forms he recognizes as standard form exercises. But that's not what really catches Cor’s attention, it's the fact that the man is missing all of his usual armor. Cor has rarely seen Drautos in anything but his captain’s uniform, especially not when they sparred, and seeing him in the elegant undershirt of the Kingsglaive is a bit of a surprise. Not a bad one to be sure, but a surprise nonetheless. To anyone else it would seem a normal thing, but Cor recognizes the significance. Trust was such an odd thing indeed.

His uniform jacket joins with the captain’s on the bench, and he stretches unnecessarily as he glances over at Drautos.

“No swords today?” Drautos drops into a relaxed posture and shrugs.

“I seem to recall that mixing things up was your idea,” he replies, and then gives him a long look. “And you look like you need to hit something.”

“Maybe,” Cor scoffs, because he sure feels like it. Pent up energy sizzles beneath the surface, not quite anger, but easily irritation. With Niflheim on one side, the Council on the other, and the Crownsguard stuck in the middle the last few weeks have made him feel like he’s running in circles. Maybe punching something would make him feel better. A hand to hand spar sounds like it's exactly what he needs. 

“The usual rules?” Drautos makes for the center of the room and Cor stares after him. The shirt fits him snug, pulled tight across broad shoulders and Cor’s feels his eyes drift unbidden to those arms, all thick muscle and scars. Their last bar visit he didn’t let himself look, but he can’t help it now. “Or would you rather something else?” Cor shakes his head, grounding himself with every step he takes closer to the central square of mats lined up on the floor ahead of time by Drautos or the last people to use the room. 

“Same as always,” he replies, and Drautos only nods, already bracing himself, arms up and fists ready in front of himself. Cor follows suit, and soon their circling each other, and then much to his surprise, Drautos strikes first. 

They trade blows for sharp seconds that bleed into minutes until Cor can feel the sweat beading on his face. As always it's relentless, Drautos always is, the man never holds back, which he usually appreciates. Now though it's a nuisance, his mind keeps drifting from the moment, his eyes too. Lingering too long on skin shining with sweat under the fluorescent until a punch grazes his shoulder painfully and drags him back into the moment. 

“You seem distracted, Marshal,” Drautos observes, and Cor curses himself for being so obviously bothered by anything. 

“And you’re talking an awful lot for a spar,” Cor replies. Of the two of them Drautos was always the one who usually fought in stone faced silence, and in all honesty it was throwing Cor off a bit. Along with everything else. 

Drautos chuckles and steps back, lifting up the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and giving Cor a teasing glimpse of the hard muscle hidden beneath the fabric. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry as his thoughts stray dangerously. Now was not the time. Backing up a few steps he resumes his fighting stance, keeping his eyes on the other man’s face and his attention on the subtle shifts in his posture. 

With a sudden twist in his step he lunges and Drautos meets him with a steady arm to block the kick. Cor knows it's sloppy, each swing and dodge lacking his usual finesse. 

He aims his fist for the tender flesh beneath the other man’s ribs, but it’s too sloppy to get past his guard. Instead of a leaving his opponent winded Cor is left open and Drautos takes full advantage of his lack of focus, snagging his arm and twisting him around. With an unprecedented ease Drautos brings him down, following until he has him well and truly pinned to the mats on the floor. That iron grip still has his arm and he struggles, but it only makes him acutely aware of how close they are, the way Drautos is straddled across his thighs, practically draped over him to keep him down. Unable to help it he thinks of what it would be like to be in this position under different circumstances and with his face pressed into the mats beneath them it's easy to imagine. 

“Looks like I win this round.” Warm breath tickles the back of his neck as Drautos taunts him, he can practically hear the smug grin and his body responds. Shame floods him as he feels himself grow hard in his pants and damn it all he couldn’t pinpoint how it had come to this. He needs to leave now, before he does some something he would regret. His free hand taps the mat three times, conceding defeat, and Drautos rises off of him. A small relief. 

He ignores the offered hand, doesn’t miss the way Drautos’s brows furrow in confusion as Cor rights himself alone and brushes past him without a second glance. But he can’t worry about that now, not when his body is so close to betraying him. His palms are sweaty when he grabs his jacket from the bench and dons it as he attempts to leave the training room with some shred of dignity. At least he waves, though it's almost a dismissive thing and he doesn’t look back, he doesn’t dare.

~X~

Once he’s finally home Cor lets himself relax though he curses himself at the same time. Damn it he wasn’t a teenager. Those days were far behind him, and he was far too old to be acting like this. Cor sighs, paces into his kitchen, and pulls out a glass to have a drink, something he rarely does outside of weekends or his monthly outings with Drautos. And he really shouldn’t think about him right now. Of course once his thoughts drift that way it's impossible to shake them, and Cor struggles with himself only briefly before conceding defeat and accepting the unfortunate fact that he was lusting over the captain of the Kingsglaive, his friend, like some youth half his age. Shit.

Well it had been a while, that was probably it, he hadn’t had sex in. Well, years. He hadn’t had sex in years. That was definitely it, he just needed to go out and get laid. Maybe Drautos wouldn’t be averse to a proposition... But he stamps out that thought as soon as his mind conjures it. The threat of ruining the very delicate friendship they had because of his unfortunate attraction was not worth it. Drautos had, somehow, become a steady and enjoyable presence in his life, and he would hate to see that dashed because of his sudden libido. 

Of course now that he was thinking about it his mind can’t help but drift back to the training room. Hard muscle pressing down on him, warm breath tickling his ear, the glimpse of toned muscle. How good it would feel for that to happen in his own bed, his sheets beneath his fingers, and no barriers between skin. Cor shudders, his cock twitches with interest, and heat floods his cheeks in the solitude of his home. 

“What a mess,” he mutters into the quiet, and his empty glass clinks when he sets it down on the counter.

Later, in the dark loneliness of his bedroom, despite his best efforts to resist, he takes himself in hand. Practiced fingers dance in well known patterns, brushing and teasing all the spots that make him want, until he’s gasping into the empty silence. When he comes with a ragged sigh it's to the traitorous thoughts of the man he wants but can't have. A fools desire just out of reach.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey my update schedule has no consistency here's a chapter~  
> This chapter kind of went its own direction and got away from me pretty much completely. Very little is left of it's initial plan but I kind of like the direction it took. It sort of sets the stage for some things. 
> 
> Its got a bit of what I originally planned, but most of it will now be in 10, which is going to end up longer since id rather not split it up. And its probably the chapter you've been waiting for. 
> 
> And a big thank you as always for sticking with this thing.
> 
> no beta

Muffled sounds of Insomnia’s nightlife filter through his open window and add a strange ambiance to his failed attempts at sleep. Typically he keeps the window shut, and the sounds are muffled enough that he’s grown used to them enough to ignore them. Unfortunately his building’s cooling unit has gone out and his appartment is far too stifling without it. So he drifts in uneasy slumber, nightmares lurking on the edge of his consciousness until he finally drifts to sleep and they rush to terrorize him. The shrill ring of his phone wakes him in an instant, nearly has him jumping out of his skin. He grabs for it blindly for a moment before he brings it to his ear.

“Drautos,” he answers with the curt heavy rumble of sleep. 

What he gets sets him on edge, makes pieces click into the larger scheme of the world, a purpose he’d been able to ignore quite well until now. Titus hardly hears his own reply before the call is ended and he has to restrain himself from crushing his phone against the bedside table when he sets it down. Wide awake he readies himself quickly, and leaves his hot appartment for the outside and all the misfortunes it brings him. 

Fortis is waiting for him outside of HQ, leaning against the entrance in the simplest pieces of his uniform, like he threw it on and dressed just to come gloat. Which he probably did when he considers the early hour, the sun not even close to rising just yet. Titus braces himself as he takes the steps, feeling exposed in his own clothes, missing the leather with a sudden fierceness. 

“Where are they,” he says immediately when he reaches the top. Fortis huffs, lip curling into a look someplace between smug and contempt. 

“Had them squared away in that nice medical ward you got here, though if it were up to me they’d be sittin’ in cells for the rest of the night.” Titus grunts and makes to pass him, but the other man blocks his way, one of the few people with the stature to do it. 

“Those Glaives of yours could do with some discipline, Captain, best keep them on a tighter leash until they’re a bit more civilized, eh.” Titus shoulders past him, swallowing a biting response as he seethes at the mocking insult ignoring the clucking tongue as he goes by. 

Damn Lucis and it's hypocrisy. One deep inhale steadies him as he makes his way through HQ, and when he lets it out his anger is gone, leaving nothing in it's wake. 

When he arrives at the medical ward it's crowded, more so than he’s ever seen it. Nothing serious stands out as he looks around at the Glaives involved, but it still doesn’t look good. A hush falls when he steps toward them and they stiffen, battered faces all turned towards him. Luche in particular looks like hell, obviously the worst off of the bunch, is the only one sitting back in a cot. They all look absolutely miserable. 

“Tell me what happened,” he says, low and calm, hiding his anger well. Tredd opens his mouth and closes it, instead spitting blood off to the side and pressing fresh gauze to his split lip. Nyx shifts awkwardly on the other side of the room, jaw a nasty purple hue. Beside him Crowe is red with anger, and only Libertus with his hand with a warning on her arm keeps her fury from exploding outward. For a while no one speaks. 

“We didn’t start the fight, captain,” Luche says finally. One of his eyes is black and swollen shut, and it looks like he took quite the beating if the bruises blooming across his skin are any indication. 

“That’s not what I asked,” he replies without malice.

“Some drunk decided to put the filthy immigrants in their place,” Tredd sneers. “Talking about us like we’re just a bunch of leeches to the good people of Lucis.”

“Luche tried to talk him down, and then well...” Pelna starts, and Titus sees the bandage on his cheek and the ends of what had been a nasty cut. 

“He punched me,” Luche finishes, pressing an icepack to his face, wincing at the cold sting. 

“So I punched him back,” Tredd says. 

“Then it just spiraled into a bar fight.” Libertus chimes in with a shrug. Crowe still has that quiet fury in her eyes, but she’s got a handle on it, and she doesn’t add any sort of biting remark into the mix. She’s come a long way in terms of restraint Titus notes briefly before his attention returns to the rather pressing conversation. 

“And we all had a great time kicking the shit out of each other,” Luche snaps, anger finally coming to the surface and Titus catches the dangerous glint in his eye. 

“That’s enough,” he says and the room falls silent. “Who broke it up?” 

“We tried.” A new voice joins in, and a Glaive whose name escapes him for a moment stands and steps forward next to Nyx. Blood has stained the bottom of his nose and Titus wonders if it's broken. Nyx nods, expression blank. “Then the Watch showed up and well…” Titus nods as the Glaive finishes, hands flexing against his pants. Silas Caecina, he remembers suddenly, that was his name. The one with a flair for acrobatics and a penchant for poor timing. At least they tried to stop it, that’s about the only thing going for them right now. 

“I do not fault you for defending a fellow Glaive, but fighting with civilians is not acceptable. I’ll clean up this mess, but there will be consequences.” Heads bow and the Glaives accept what he says without protest and Titus feels something tighten in his chest, something grim. Before he leaves he singles out a single Glaive for a test he doesn’t want to give. But it's something he must do now or later, and the timing now is opportune. “Luche, meet me in my office later, we need to talk.”

“Sir.” There’s no question in his voice, nothing but compliance, and the summer air now seems chill. 

The pieces are being set in motion, the second act about to begin, and Titus wonders if somewhere Ardyn Izunia is laughing at him. 

Some hours later, when the sun has started to creep into the sky, Luche enters his office where Titus sits at his desk with a mountain of frustrating paperwork filled with legality looming over him. The bruises have darkened more on Luche’s face, but the cuts have stopped bleeding, and with luck they might not even scar. But this is deeper than all that. 

“Take a seat, Luche,” he says, and the man does so obediently. 

“I admire that you tried to defuse the situation peacefully, it’s best to avoid conflict. We cannot fight for Lucis if it’s people wish to fight us.” He words it right, keeps his face impassive, and waits.

“Pardon me, sir, but I don’t fight for Lucis.” 

“Then what do you fight for, Luche?” 

“For hearth and home.” They stare at each other for a long moment, calculating, and then Luche tells the truth. “For myself,” he says, and after a moment adds, “and for my home.”

“And what are you willing to do for that dream?” His fingers rap against the table, the bundle in his lap feeling monumental. Titus focuses on the moment, grounds himself as he has for years in his purpose. For hearth and home. Always for hearth and home. 

“Anything, sir,” he replies and there it is, suspicion creeping into his good eye as he watches him warily. Titus stands and brings his secret up, sets it on the desk carefully, like it might burst if he’s too rough.

“Then there’s something we should discuss,” he says, unwrapping the cloth until it reveals it's prize. “This is for you,” he says, as Luche stares hard at the item on the desk with curiosity and that same dangerous glint in his eye as before. Titus knew he would see it, knew this would bring it out. “Now tell me what you wish the outcome of this war to be.”

Luche had never been the strongest of the Glaive, his true talent lie deeper, that cunning ambition that Titus knew was both his weakness and strength. That light in his eye a mere fraction of it. In that moment he lays his cards on the table, carefully cultivated over years of deception. Necessity spurs him on as he gives his proposition. The gun on the desk glints like it's some wicked evil thing, and Luche sits silent for only a moment before he gives his answer. 

It’s exactly what Titus knew it would be, and it makes him feel nothing. Nothing at all.

~X~

The council meeting follows on the tail end of the morning, and is the closest thing to torture he’s had to endure since Gralea. Titus spends most of it trying to keep his temper in check while he defends the Glaives. It’s trying and tiring and stretches his already thin patience to the brink.

“The Kingsglaive cannot be fighting with Insomnian citizens like-” One of the men to his left begins. Titus doesn’t know his name, doesn’t care to, but he turns his gaze to him immediately from his awkward seat at the end of the table. 

“Are the Kingsglaive not citizens, Councilman?” Titus interrupts him. Somehow his tone manages to stay even, but he knows his eyes are dangerous now, a challenge in them that demands answer. The councilmen swallows, sputtering for a moment while he tries to save his argument. 

“No one is implying such a thing, Captain Drautos, please forgive such poor wording.” Across the table a different councilman adjusts his spectacles, one of the king’s advisors, Scientia, if his memory served him. Titus takes a practiced breath, and the anger leaves him. 

“That’s enough of that,” Regis says from the head of the table, there’s a deep frown on his face that makes him look older, and though he looks it he doesn’t sound tired. “Drautos, punish the Glaives involved as you see fit, though I hate for it to come to that. b\But I refuse to suspend the Kingsglaive when they are our best chance in this war.” A few members of the Council look ready to protest, but they hold their tongues until their king is finished. “You are dismissed, Captain, thank you for your time, your words will be considered, and we shall speak again soon.” 

Titus nods and stands quickly, chair screeching across the marble as he does. He bows and leaves before anything else is said. Who knows what action will be decided against the Glaive, but Titus knows whatever it is, in the end it will work in his favor, and he hates it. 

“Drautos.” Waiting outside the door looking grim is the marshal, and Titus sighs. As if the day couldn’t get any worse. Maybe it's a simple coincidence, but Titus knows he’s not that lucky.

Since their last spar, the man has avoided him for the most part, and on the few instances of crossing paths he’d been dismissive. At first the sudden change was jarring, but like all things Titus has come to accept it. Whatever caused Cor’s dramatic shift in mood is not his concern, and the initial sting had faded quickly. At least that’s what he decided.

“Marshal.”

“I heard about what happened.” Of course he had, the entire Citadel was buzzing with it. 

“Have you come to condemn the Kingsglaive as well?” Titus dares. Cor winces. 

“No.” Cor shifts, and Titus appraises him warily, notices the furrow of his brow, the sleepless dark beneath his eyes. “I wanted to check on things.” 

“The Glaives will endure,” he replies and rubs at his temples. His guard was beginning to slip, but he can’t hide how tired he was, not now after the meeting had taken so much. 

“What about you?”

“Suddenly concerned for my well being, Marshal?” The jab leaves him before he can stop it, and he feels petulant once it's past his lips. Whatever rift between them is for the best, he should leave well enough alone, but his disappointment is bared now and there’s no taking it back. 

“I deserved that.” Cor almost winces, but he faces him with an honesty that is impossible to ignore. “About my behavior recently,” he starts, “I want to apologize. I let certain… things get to me, and I took it out on you. I was… frankly I was an ass, and I apologize.” Titus doesn’t know what to say, he never really does when it comes to such things. He misses the brief but easiness of their odd companionship, the one link he has to feeling like himself, and he can’t refuse it. 

“There’s no need,” he replies, and his grim expression softens, face relaxing. He’ll blame his exhaustion later for such a raw moment, but for now he ignores it. Cor looks pleased at least, and knows better than to argue. 

“Don’t forget the Kingsglaive has my support, I know the blame for this isn’t solely on them, and I’ll do what I can to sway the council.”

Titus opens his mouth to reply and closes it instead, unsure of what he even planned to say. Instead he nods, and they go their separate ways. He wonders what will happen, if they'll fall back into the strange sort of normalcy they'd forged, part of him hopes so, and the other wonders when he started thinking of the marshal by his name.

~X~

Weeks pass and things settle back to the way they were for the most part, the incident with the Glaives behind them though not forgotten. Since then Titus has kept a better eye on the Glaive, and it’s far easier now with Luche’s help, though he refuses to dwell on those details for now. There’s time yet before that will matter. King Regis had finally, with some prompting from both himself and his Shield, gotten around to asking him what had been weighing on him for the past few months. Well at least the king had gotten someone to ask him. It would sting his pride that he was not granted the courtesy of an audience with the king for such a matter, but he had grown used to such unintended slights. On the other side of the desk the prince’s chamberlain sits with a notepad in his hand, expression blank as he clears his throat.

“Thank you for your time, Captain,” he begins looking as well composed as any councilman twice his age. 

“Of course. I could hardly deny an audience with the advisor of our future king.” That and the fact that the message he’d received from the boy had mentioned a pressing request from the king, and he could hardly say no. 

“Indeed. You’re time is valuable, Captain Drautos, and I will not take more than necessary. I’m sure you know His Highness turned fifteen not long ago, and it is tradition for him to now begin mastering the magic of his lineage. His Majesty believes it is time for Prince Noctis to begin honing the gift of his magic, warping in particular, but King Regis regretfully has neither the time nor energy to pass down his knowledge, so the duty must fall to the Kingsglaive and their experience. Particularly your discipline and guidance, Captain. His Majesty believes this is the best way, seeing you trained the Kingsglaive.” 

“I am at the king’s disposal.” A fact that always looms, a puppet to the king and a puppet to the Empire, always someone yanking on his strings. There is no answer but acquiescence. “I will mentor his highness as requested, though I must wonder why his chamberlain comes to me when a call would suffice.”

“I thought it best to request such things in person. A simple call would lack proper respect, and there are other details best spoken of face to face. Noctis is…” he pauses and adjusts his glasses. “Noctis has the skill, but he often lacks the drive. It is the king’s hope that these lessons will help the prince in more ways than one.”

“I see. Then it will be done. When are these lessons to begin?”

“I could bring him by tomorrow afternoon once he’s finished with his classes if that is acceptable.”

“It is. I will make the necessary arrangements.” 

“And I will ensure the prince arrives on time,” Ignis Scientia stands and bows formally, but he stands awkwardly for a moment, fingers drumming nervously across his things. 

“Is there something else?” 

“If I may, Captain, I do have one request.” Titus motions for him to continue, and it takes half a second for the boy to find his words. “Noctis can be stubborn at times, please be patient with him.” There was more to that, but Titus doesn't press the young adviser further.

“That I can do,” he replies. 

“Much appreciated, Captain,” the boy replies, seemingly more comfortable with the whole ordeal, and he parts with another quick bow before he’s out the door and off to some other appointment. 

Train the prince. An interesting development to say the least, and an ample opportunity for deeper machinations, but that idea has little appeal. Like he trained the Glaive he will train the prince, nothing held back. And he needs to think about the Glaives. Clearing the courtyard shouldn’t be too much trouble, but he would need some Glaives to demonstrate, he’d need to address them, and select a handful he thought would behave best in the presence of the prince. The last thing they needed now was another unfortunate episode, least of all with royalty. 

Titus pushes away from his desk and makes ready. Despite his best efforts he finds himself looking forward to the challenge of training, and Titus plots it out as he walks, until a clear idea rests in his mind, and his thoughts center and focus.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the chapter we've all been waiting for. The one with the smut.  
> This is the chapter that started it all, the first draft of it was done the day i started this fic, and decided to turn it into a multichapter fic instead of some pwp oneshot. I changed a lot about this chapter, and I hope it ended up being alright.  
> Next chapter may take longer to update, but I have a few things planned, and know where this story ends, so I've got that going for me at least. And there will be more smut in the future as a heads up. 
> 
> unbetad

Prince Noctis arrives with his retinue early. Hovering close to him is Scientia, exchanging quiet words with the prince as they walk, closely followed by the prince’s Shield and another unfamiliar youth. Titus waits for them at the base of the training pilliar, the uneven cluster of stone towering behind him. The Glaives he selected sit back atop the surrounding walls until they’re needed and for once everything seems to be in it's proper place. He can’t help but wonder how long it will last. 

“Your Highness,” Titus greets with a bow. “Welcome to Kingsglaive headquarters.” 

“Uh, thanks, Captain Drautos. It’s pretty cool I guess.” The prince is rather blatantly not thrilled about the whole situation. The exasperated look on his chamberlain’s face and the irate glare from his Shield let him know that the prince’s flippant attitude isn’t knew. 

This will be difficult, he can already tell. Already the prince is staring off into space looking like he wants to be anywhere but here. Titus wants to hate the boy like he hates his father, but he can’t. His meetings with the prince over the past few years have been few and brief, but he knows the look in the prince’s eyes, and he cannot hate him for it. On dark days where the memories are harsh and plague his mind he remembers the way Tenebrae burned, the way he killed the people in his path, that way a little boy looked at him in terror. That day he realized he had become a monster, and he would never forget it. No he cannot hate Prince Noctis for his father’s sins, but he needn't show kindness either, he was here to be taught not coddled, and Titus intended to do that the same way he taught the Glavies. Without sympathy. He draws his sword fast towards the prince, watches his eyes widen before the blade stops a few inches from his face, and the Amicitia boy jerks forward with that ingrained instinct to protect.

“The first lesson is always be ready to move,” he says, ignoring the heated looks both boys shoot him. “The second,” he says, lowering his blade and testing the weight before he changes his grip, spins, and throws it neat and clean. “Is learning how to throw a blade.” High above them his sword juts out from the pillar, glinting in the sun. “You will learn to warp after you have learned to throw. The rest will follow.” The dumbstruck look finally falls from the prince’s face and he looks up at him with an almost glare. 

“No way,” he says, petulant as he looks back up and then shakes his head. “That’s impossible, I can’t do that.”

“Not yet,” Titus agrees, stepping back. “Now draw your sword, Prince, and begin. We do nothing until you reach my own blade.” The prince simply stares and makes to take a step back, but his adviser stops him with a gentle hand. 

“You must try.” 

“Come on, can’t be that hard,” his Shield agrees.

“You can do it, Noct.” The other boy chimes in, and Titus feels an odd sense of familiarity when he sees the shock of golden hair but he shakes it off and waits for the prince’s response. 

“Fine,” Prince Noctis grumbles, stepping forward. With a sound like breaking glass he calls a weapon to his hand, a surprisingly plain thing, and glares up at his goal. He drops his weight, turns his torso, and Titus stops him before he can make his throw. 

“You won’t hit anything if you throw like that,” Titus says. He steps towards the prince and taps his arm until the boy lowers his arm. “Loosen your grip, if it's too tight your aim will be off. Drop your stance a bit, yes like that, and keep your feet light. Your body should flow with the movement. Now try.” Prince Noctis nods at him, takes a deep breath, and throws the blade with all his might. It misses spectacularly, his advice only partially heeded, and the sword goes spinning off a good distance before it lands with a dusty thud on the ground on the other side of the arena. 

“How’d I miss?” There’s genuine surprise in the prince’s voice.

“You’re blade is an extension of yourself, surely your Shield taught you that. Now, again.” The prince huffs, but does as he’s told, marching off to fetch his sword before he tries again. 

It goes on for long enough that the sky begins to darken and Titus begins to doubt the prince will ever hit his mark. His entourage had moved to sit on the nearby steps out of the way, watching intently. With a frustrated shout the prince stabs his sword into the dirt, panting and shaking in anger.

“This is impossible, you can’t expect me to do this! Why am I even here? I don’t want this!” Frustration bleeds from every word as prince Noctis lets it all boil over until he’s practically shouting, and he’s making and absolute scene. Already Titus catches his three companions rushing over the short distance on his periphery. But he can stop it now.

“Your Highness,” he says with the stern tone he usually reserves for his men. “That’s enough.” The prince freezes, looking back at him nervously. “Steady yourself and try once more, then we’ll be done for the day, and you and I will talk.” Prince Noctis swallows visibly but he steps back and resumes his stance without protest. A deep inhale, a focused glance, and then he moves. The sword meets stone with a hum, a good five feet of the ground and perfectly straight. 

“Woohoo! You did it, Noct!” The blonde boy is the first to reach them, throwing a friendly arm around the prince’s shoulders and talking excitedly about the whole ordeal. It’s the first time Titus sees his face, and he suddenly knows why he seems so familiar. 

Niflheim fifteen years ago. Izunia had taken him to the first magitek research facility to show off his new monstrosity. He had towered over the researches in the Glauca armor, and the smug look on Izunia’s face when Verstael Besithia caught sight of him for the first time. Envy and inquiry plain as day as he circled and questioned, examining him like he wasn’t even present to hear him. Titus had picked up enough of the scientific jargon, and had been tempted to throttle the man for the way he spoke and the things he spoke him, but Izunia had laughed and tsked at him knowingly as they followed the researcher, and Titus had remained silent. When they reached their destination, Titus had felt sick. People in tubes, all identical, all strangely still in whatever strange liquid kept him. The truth behind the magitek troopers. Revolutionary they said, efficient and easy. They were truly monstrous, these scientists, to create babies born to be monsters, monsters like him. Alarms had sounded while they stood there, in that room of future monsters, as a Lucian absconded with one of Besithia’s precious test subjects. It was hard to forget. 

He knows where that babe ended up know. 

“Captan?” The prince’s voice clears his head, pulls him out of the memory before it can consume him. “You wanted to talk to me?” He pulls his sword from the stone with great effort and looks at him expectantly. He nods and turns to the others.

“I’ll discuss the scheduling of the prince’s next training sessions later, Ignis. But now I need a moment with His Highness.” 

“Of course.” The young adviser seems surprised at the use of his name, but he offers no protest and leads the others away where they loiter at the entrance. 

“You lose your temper too easily, Your Highness.” The prince looks like he’s about to protest but holds his tongue, thinking before he speaks. A good start. 

“It’s just hard, not to get frustrated. It’s… a lot.” He refuses to look at Titus when he speaks, and that makes it all the more easy to catch what he doesn’t say. 

“You need to relax, clear your head,” Titus offers, the only advice he can think of. He was never good at offering encouragement, not to the Glaives, and certainly not to the prince of Lucis. 

“What do you do? When you need to clear your head? I mean, you can’t be like this all the time.” There’s something in the way he asks it, innocent and genuinely curious, his previous struggle gone completely, that makes Titus want to tell him the truth. Much to his surprise he does just that. 

“I used to fish with my father.” With the cool ocean breeze against his face and his father’s warm laugh filling the air. “Now,” now he drank, but that he doesn’t say. “Now there’s just quiet.” 

“Fishing, huh?” He looks thoughtful, like he’s rolling the idea over in his mind, accepting the answer without pressing further.

“That will be all, Your Highness, we’ll continue your lessons another day.”

“And I’ll get it next time.” Titus says nothing to that, and prince Noctis doesn’t wait for a reply, taking his simple nod and leaving with a near skip in his step.

Titus lets himself deflate once they’re gone, the Glaives he had stay disperse now that they aren't needed, and Titus heads to his office to fill out paperwork. At least it could have gone worse, and Titus takes his small success for what it is, even though it will mean more work in the future. 

Only when he’s finished with the day’s report does he remember that he has one for Cor still sitting on his desk from a few days ago still waiting to be delivered. Shit. He’ll need to get that to him as soon as he can, but judging by the late hour it won’t be today. He types out a quick email and gets ready to head back to his apartment. His phone chimes from his pocket and he pulls it out to squint at the bright screen in his now dark office. 

-Mind dropping off that report at my place on your way home? I should have gotten it from you earlier but I got caught up.-

Fingers hovering over the screen he contemplates it for a moment. If he does it now he won’t need to bother with it tomorrow, and it won’t be later than it needs to be. But the thought of going to Cor’s home has a strange discomfort. Since the marshal’s strange apology they’ve hardly seen each other, sparring only once, and even that had an odd feel about it. Convenience wins, in the end, after all it's practical to get it done now. 

-Not at all.-

~X~

Cor’s apartment was closer to the Citadel than his own, in a nicer part of the city, and all around better than anything the captain of the Kingsglaive was ever offered. Not the marshal’s fault of course, and not that Titus would have moved from his droll hovel despite the other opportunities presented, but it's the principle of it that niggles at the back of his thoughts. Cor had sent him the code to get into the complex in the text along with his address, and Titus shifts the file under his arm to key in the digits before heading inside. He takes the stairs to give himself more time to wonder why exactly he agreed to bring reports in the middle of the night when they could easily be left until morning. Of course it's not enough time to get to the bottom of his dilemma, and soon enough he’s standing in front of the door, hand heavy as he lifts it to knock. His hands fiddle idly with the report while he waits, but it’s not long before the door opens. Cor greets him with a smile, dressed in plain clothes that are easily the most casual he’s seen him in, unfazed by the way Titus thrusts the paperwork toward him with little in the way of greeting

“Thank you for coming, Drautos, I appreciate you stopping by,” Cor says, taking the offered file almost delicately.

“It’s no trouble, Marshal,” he replies, ready to take his leave at the first hint of a farewell. 

“You’re welcome inside for a drink if you’d like, a token of gratitude.” 

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” he replies even though he would. It had been on the tip of his tongue to reject the offer, but the long day and the promise of alcohol and good company is too tempting to pass up at the moment. 

Cor steps aside to let him in and he takes in the space and then closes and locks the door behind him. The click of the latch doesn’t make him feel as trapped as it usually does, but it's a passing thought as he looks around. There’s a couch and armchair to the left and a small television to the right, a coffee table scattered with papers snug in the middle. At the back of the main space sits the kitchen, a small stretch of counter separating it from the dining table and the rest of the room. Two doors segment the wall to his left and one on the right but he doesn’t bother with thinking about where they lead, too distracted by how much the place looks actually lived in, something he hasn’t seen since he was a boy. 

“Just put your boots by the door, I’ll get the drinks.” Titus complies, faintly remembering the Lucian custom he’d learned at some point. 

“So how was the Prince’s first training session with the Kingsglaive?” Cor asks once they’ve settled down at his small dining table, glasses in hand and a bottle of good whiskey between them. Titus almost snorts into his drink. 

“As well as I assume you’d expect,” he takes a sip of the amber liquid and swirls it in his glass before he continues, “he has a ways to go. Couldn’t manage to warp today, only had one good throw with his sword, and he’s easily frustrated. But he has potential if he’d only see it.” Cor chuckles.

“You sound like the rest of us now.” Mirth dances in his eyes and Titus throws back the rest of his whiskey, settling now into the ease of their banter and the warm nudge of alcohol. 

“His Shield is quite the opposite,” he muses, remembering the quick flare and fade of ferocity in the boy’s eyes when he’d thought the prince in danger. “He has good instincts, if not a little brash.” 

“Gladio takes after his father,” Cor says, a fond and nostalgic smile on his face. “He’s hard headed, but he’s got what it takes, he’ll make a fine shield one day.”

“I must admit, I find it hard to picture Clarus like that.” 

“Trust me, I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it, but we were all different then.” Titus drinks again, polishing off his glass and reaching for more. This is not the time to think about the past, his or Cor’s, it's what he always avoids. Instead of replying he grabs the bottle, catching Cor’s fingers as the other man makes the same move. The touch lingers, and Cor pulls away, finishing his own drink instead of filing his. Titus pours himself another glass and then slides the bottle across the table, an almost itch in his fingers. Cor finishes his drink and does the same, and the air is suddenly heavy with awkward silence. 

“The boy with the prince’s retainer, I’ve never seen him before,” he says, attempting to pull the conversation back from that horrid silence. Cor’s demeanor changes, the look on his face something he can’t find the name of but has seen before. 

“Oh, that's his friend Prompto Argentum, he’s never been in the Citadel, today was probably his first time even close, but he’s a good kid.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” he replies and Cor gives him a small smile, and they drink and chat sparsely. 

After his third glass Titus stands, head surprisingly clear as he does so.

“Thank you for the drinks, but I should be going,” he says almost regretfully, but it's what he needs to do. Cor doesn’t protest and Titus takes his glass to the kitchen without looking back. 

The marble is cool and grounding, and Titus lingers with his hand on the glass for longer than necessary before letting go and moving away.He turns just as Cor rounds the counter, his shoulder catching the man in the chest. Perhaps he’s had a bit too much to drink, and he opens his mouth to mumble out a quick apology when their eyes meet. Something in Cor’s gaze stops him, something in the way his eyes dart down to his lips and back, something he hardly recognizes and can scarcely believe. Before he can name it Cor kisses him, sudden and bold. Titus feels himself freeze, eyes wide, shocked into stillness as Cor moves against him. His lack of reciprocation seems to break the spell, and Cor pulls back, a mortified look on his face.

“Forgive me, Captain. That was... improper.” To his credit his evident shame doesn’t make it into his voice, but his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are downcast. Somehow he can’t seem to look away.

There is space between them now, and Titus knows he should turn and go with a short acceptance of the apology and let this be behind them and forgotten. But something keeps him there. A part of him buried so deep for so long makes him wonder when the last time he’d been touched outside of violence was. Broken memories of a broken home from a different and much simpler life. Echoes of kindness and tender comforts he’d long forgotten, and he aches with a longing he thought lost. Cor faces away from him, his expression impossible to read, and Titus takes it as his opportunity to back away. That deep longing ache stops him from making for the door however, and for a long moment he simply stares at his escape. 

He should leave, but he doesn’t. 

When he turns back around Cor is closer and their eyes meet for an instant before they crash into each other. The cold calculated discipline that had kept him alive for so long fades to the background and all that remains is a fire burning through his veins. Lust winning over logic. It’s a rough kiss. Cor’s tongue probes at his lips and Titus opens up to meet him, a messy clash of teeth and tongue with a hunger behind it that can’t be ignored. Suddenly his back hits the nearby wall as Cor presses forward, dragging hungry lips down the column of his throat and Titus groans, hunting for his bearings in the sudden daze. With a shove he pushes the marshal back, but before the man can voice his concern at the sudden outburst, Titus is on him again, maneuvering them back towards the counter. It’s Cor’s turn to react then, a sharp inhale sucked between his teeth, arching towards him as the cool marble digs into his lower back. Cor paws at him at him with the clumsiness of desperation, and he paws at Cor with the clumsiness of inexperience and somehow it melds into something almost nimble. 

Then Cor leans back enough to pull his shirt up and over his head and Titus finds his eyes drawn to his bare torso. The skin there is smooth, clear of any harsh scars that Titus expected to see on a soldier as weathered as the marshal, especially considering the marks he himself bears. But Cor doesn’t give him much time to look at his leisure, deftly undoing the buttons of his shirt and pushing it off his shoulders. Titus presses close until they’re chest to chest, hiding his scars with the feel of skin against skin. Oh it's electrifying, the press of their hips even more so. They’re both hard, something that might have shamed him if he wasn’t so desperate, but they're close and all Titus wants now is to be closer still, the tight leather of his pants almost unbearable now as they rut against each other. 

“Bedroom,” Cor hisses as their hips meet again, the subtle grinding suddenly too much and not enough. Titus lets himself be pushed away without a word and simply stares as he tries to catch his breath from the suddenness of it all. It’s good, the way Cor looks, flushed and panting, lips wet and red from the attention. When Cor steps around him and gives his belt one sharp tug as he passes by he stops thinking and simply follows.

They have a hard time keeping their hands to themselves as they trek the short way to the bedroom, and Titus finds that now that he’s started he doesn’t want to stop. If he stops he’ll think, and he doesn’t want that, not now when all he wants is to keep touching Cor now that he’s had a taste. Lucky for him it doesn’t take long for them to step into Cor’s bedroom, and Cor pauses only to flick on the light switch. Flowery words from poets and romantics failed to describe the carnal need now pulsing through him, but he knows what to do. A gasp tickles his neck as Cor arches into him when he slips his hands from his waist to cup his ass. It presses them close for a moment before Cor shoves his own hands between them to shove his sweatpants down his legs and kick them off to the side. Experimentally, Titus squeezes, and Cor moans before kissing him again, drawing him back until they’re beside the bed. Pulling away almost reluctantly, Cor turns in his arms, rifling through the nightstand while Titus fondles him. 

Toned muscle flexes beneath skin as he searches, and Titus can’t keep himeslf from staring, and touching, and teasing. A finger curiously traces the cleft of his ass and Cor snatches his wrist in a sudden iron grip and guides his hand towards his front, popping open the bottle in his other hand and squeezing a generous amount of lube over Titus’s fingers. It's cold and Titus wiggles his fingers against the odd sensation until the fluid warms with the motion. That was apparently what Cor had been waiting for, because in the next instant he’s using the hold he still has on Titus’s wrist to guide the hand back to his ass. 

“Easy,” he warns and Titus has no doubt that rough treatment will leave him with a broken wrist. 

This is new, and despite his bluster his touch is almost hesitant when he glides slick fingers between Cor’s legs. He circles Cor’s entrance with a finger for a few bated breaths and then finally, slowly, slips the digit inside. A long sigh shudders through Cor at the intrusion, but he leans back into the touch and the grip on his wrist slackens yet remains a guiding. His exploration is tentative to begin with, but he focuses on Cor’s reactions, the subtle hitches in his breathing and the way his fingers flex against his wrist. Soon he eases into the movements, working his way to two and then three fingers while Cor rocks back against him, the hand not still on his wrist wrapped around his own cock. Titus tries not to watch, but he can’t help stealing glances over Cor’s shoulder, biting at the skin he can reach while his hand not currently pleasuring the man before him grips his hip like iron while his own neglected cock strains for attention against the confines of his pants. Practically mesmerized by Cor’s pleasure, pleasure he’s causing.

Abruptly Cor tightens the grip on his wrist and yanks his hand away, shuddering and breathing hard. Titus opens his mouth to apologize for his apparent blunder but Cor’s mouth is on his before the words can form, their tongues brushing somewhere in the middle. As they kiss Cor works open his belt and shoves at the hem until Titus is forced to help force the leather down his hips. Relief washes over him as his erection is freed and Cor practically purrs. 

“Damn,” he breathes, and any witty response Titus might have come up with dies in his throat when Cor takes him in hand. He lets go only to reach back and produce a condom from the open drawer behind him. Foil tears easily, and then he’s rolling the rubber down his length. At first it’s a strange feeling, but it's chased away by the return of Cor’s hand slicking him with lube. Titus can’t speak, can’t even think, mouth falling open as Cor strokes him from root to tip and back again. 

“Stop,” he manages to gasp out, and Cor does instantly. Before he can show any concern Titus is reaching for him, moving them until Cor’s knees bump the edge of the bed. He gets the hint and climbs up, giving Titus an incredible view as he shifts forward on his knees until he can reach the headboard without too much strain. Truly a sight to behold, one that makes his cock twitch against his belly. He follows, climbing up after, hands tracing up Cor’s spread legs until they come to rest steadily on his hips. 

“Start slow, it’s been a while.” Titus grunts, words failing him, but Cor nods and that's all the permission he needs to move. 

Cor’s hands flex against the headboard as Titus positions himself and pushes in as slow as he can manage, his grip on the man’s hips rough with restraint. He has no intention of harming the man beneath him, he’s aware of that much, but it’s hard not to lose himself. Once he’s worked his way in he starts moving, shallow little thrusts for his sake as much as the marshal’s. The feeling is almost overwhelming, tight and hot like he’s never known, and it takes all his focus not to get swept away. Suddenly Cor bucks back, pulling him deeper and Titus groans despite himself. There’s no restraint after that, no gentleness, his thrusts rough and deep, building a frantic uneven rhythm that has them both panting. His left hand leaves Cor’s waist to grip the headboard for purchase, careful to keep space between their hands, somehow the prospect of twining fingers too intimate even as his chest presses down against Cor’s back while they fuck. 

After a particular snap of his hips Cor gasps and arches, his right hand dropping from the headboard and moving between his legs. Titus loses himself to the pleasure, rutting into Cor with little finesse, but it doesn’t matter. They’re both far too wound up for this to last. He thrusts deep, grinding down to chase the feeling and Cor moans, his other hand dropping to grasp the pillow by his head as he comes, clenching tight around him. Fuck he’s close, and he makes to pull out, but Cor throws a hand back, blunt nails digging into his ass to keep him in place and that's all it takes. Titus grits his teeth and comes in silence, white spots dancing across his eyes. 

Limbs shaking he catches his breath with his forehead pressed against Cor’s shoulder, panting from the exertion as he returns to his senses. Beneath him Cor is in a similar state, head bowed into his pillow, fingers clenching and unclenching around the fabric between his fingers, sweat drying on his skin.

_I may have to kill this man._

That old dark thought again. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth now, a sense of shame flooding through him that he can’t shake. He pulls away to sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair as he tries to calm his racing thoughts. Behind him the bed dips as Cor shifts to sit opposite him, maybe mulling through his own regrets. What was he thinking? Neither of them speak for a while, and the silence is crushing, taunting. They crossed a line, leapt over it entirely and Titus doesn’t know if they’ll be able to get back. Part of him doesn’t want to, now that he’s had a taste of such pleasure part of him wants more. He ignores it pointedly, crushes it beneath his proverbial heel and stands. This was a mistake, a terrific failure of judgment, and he will not allow himself to repeat it. The condom is almost sticky when he removes it, and in his haste he manages to make a mess across his hand before it enters the nearby waste bin. Titus scowls and grabs his pants, pulling the leather up his legs with only some difficulty. 

“I’ll try to get that report back to you by tomorrow afternoon,” Cor says suddenly, and Titus catches him adjusting his sweatpants around his hips, tearing his eyes away before he can look anywhere else. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Cor had tried to talk about what they did, and he’s glad the man avoided it so spectacularly. Maybe it's awkward, as Titus leaves him there with a simple grunt of agreement to go grab his shirt from the floor by the counter, but he can’t manage anything put together now. 

“Thanks for the drink.” Makes it out instead of anything sensible or eloquent as he shoves his boots on without bothering with the laces. 

“Don’t mention it.” Cor’s voice is almost light, unreadable, and maybe it's just his own feeling that makes it sound like Cor is referring to more than the drink.

He bumps the door on his way out in his haste, and shame dogs his thoughts as he begins the journey home. Perhaps he’ll walk, let the long trek clear his mind, and the cool night air chase the echoes of sweet feeling from his skin.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've got a couple things to say about this chapter.   
> 1\. Went in a mostly different direction then I thought it would.  
> 2\. Is technically split in half with chapter 12 which is where my original intention was headed.  
> 3\. Took me forever to write.   
> 4\. Much like Titus ignoring what the fuck just happened so do I in this chapter. 
> 
> There was something from one of the official info releases for XV that talked about how much Noctis admired Drautos as a military leader etc and I kind of wanted to delve into that. Even though its still from our dear captain's perspective and man is it a challenging perspective. Also I wanted to fiddle with the idea of Titus being the one to teach Noctis how to fish since he mentions it wasn't Regis. So yeah. Sort of filler sort of not of a chapter. It will probably be a while before I can properly update this again. Life's been hectic, and by that I mean its kicking my ass, but know that the next chapter we get Cor and Drautos dealing with things and very probably having sex so I guess thats a plus. 
> 
> unbetad as always and this one is probably particularly bad i'll fix it tomorrow its late and idgaf

The next day, memories still fresh, Titus keeps away from his office completely. The Glaives aren’t used to him being such a solid presence in the yard, and it shows in they way their casual practice turns into a serious demonstration of the skills he’s helped them hone over the years. If they notice his odd mood they say nothing, probably used to such drastic changes in temper by now. That little thought makes him berate himself, shove everything to the side until he’s left with the familiar emptiness he’s mastered. Caecina interrupts him late into the afternoon, breathing a little heavy but otherwise the same, uniform only slightly rumpled. He’d assigned the Glaive to the Citadel for the day if he remembers right, and doesn’t have time ask why he’s here before the Glaive salutes.

“Sorry for interrupting, sir, and for leaving my post. But,” he lifts his hand and holds out a familiar file, “your office was locked, and the Crownsguard that gave it to me said it was a report from, the Marshal. So I figured I’d get it to you quick.” Shrugging off his surprise he takes the offering and nods. 

“Thank you, Silas, best get back to your post before you’re missed.”

“Of course, sir. Permission to speak freely before I go, sir?” Titus looks at him with a curious arch of his brow. 

“Granted.”

“You doin’ alright, Captain? You look exhausted.” Titus scowls, angry with himself that he could be so obvious. “With all due respect, sir!” Silas winces, shifts from foot to foo like he’s waiting for some punishment. Titus just sighs. 

“No harm done, maybe I’ll make some coffee, it’s been a long few days. Now get back to your post.” 

“Right, sir.” The Glaive leaves quickly, and Titus clenches his hand around the file hard enough to bend the protective folder before he stalks from the yard to his office.

~X~

Prince Noctis comes for his second training session three days after his first, and Drautos is ready for whatever may come. More Glaives are present this time, sitting around the rim of the arena or on the steps, watching intently. They’re making a spectacle of the whole thing, but that's not necessarily bad. Maybe the audience will motivate the prince to a faster success, make him prove himself.

“Your Highness,” he greets with a quick bow, both customary and necessary. “Did you remember your last lesson?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Noctis replies, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms.

“We’ll be practicing your throw more today, keep it aimed low, twenty perfect hits and we’ll move on.” The prince opens his mouth as if to argue, then closes it with a huff. 

“Fine,” he sighs, summoning his sword to him and falling into the stance Drautos had taught him the other day. Either he was paying attention or his Shield had made sure to drill it into his head because his form is perfect when he draws back and throws the blade. It strikes true, and the prince cheers, his friend Prompto celebrating with him. He’s quick to cut the merriment short. 

“Again. Nineteen more to go, Your Highness.”

Noctis groans, face falling before he hardens it and concentrates. His form has bettered, and though he misses a fair few, most of his throws hit their target until finally the twentieth throw lands to cheers from the prince’s comrades and whistles from the watching Glaives. 

“That wasn’t so hard. Gonna let me warp now, Captain?” Noctis says with a smug grin. Titus cocks a brow and meets the challenge. 

“It should be natural for you, Your Highness, considering your confidence. It’s about focus. You know that your blade is an extension of yourself, return to it. Should be easy for you, but keep in mind that your first warp might leave you… disoriented.” The confident smile on the prince’s face falters only briefly, but he soon straightens and shrugs.

“Piece of cake,” Noctis shrugs, borderline arrogance in his words. Silver flashes in the sun as the blade flies and meets it's mark and the prince stands arm extended in concentration for a few seconds before he disappears in a blue burst and reappears at his blade. No victory cheer leaves him, for a while he simply stands there motionless, before he bends over and heaves dryly over the dirt. 

“Like I said, Your Highness, it's hard to get used to.” Noctis runs his free hand over his face while he pulls his sword from the stone, shooting him a glare from the corner of his eye. “Now try that again, we can move on to heights and greater distances once you can keep your senses.”

“I can keep my senses just fine,” Noctis huffs, and Titus catches the defiant gleam of determination in his eyes. “I’ll prove it.” Before he can say anything the boy has run past him, spins on his heel almost expertly, and throws the blade as he’s been shown. It buries into the stone just above the middle of the pillar, and Titus would be impressed if he weren’t so suddenly angry. 

“Your Highness!” Frozen in place Noctis looks down, and even from the distance and the glare of the sun it's evident he’s afraid or at least disorientated. Damn boy just couldn’t wait to learn the proper methods. 

“Noct!” Gladiolus joins him within seconds at the base of the pillar, an attentive Shield who looks torn between livid and worried. Titus finds he feels much the same. 

“There’s no way for him to safely get down himself is there?” Ignis arrives at their side, his calm composure cracking as he visibly frets. 

“Not without the proper training no, if he misses his second throw or warps at the wrong time he could break something important.” Damn impatient boy. And then the prince’s grip slips.“Caecina! Get him down!” A flash and crack and the summoned Glaive arrives from the steps, one dagger in the stone so he’s even with the prince, a hand wrapped around his wrist like a vice. With his hands full there’s no way for him to warp them both to safety and for a tense moment they simply hang there. 

“I’ve got him!” Gladiolus steps forward, knees bent and ready to catch his charge. The two are just high enough that it’s possible, but they’ll both feel the impact aching in their bones tomorrow. 

“Do it,” he orders, and after a brief moment of no response the Glaive let's go and the prince falls. To his credit, he doesn't scream, and then he hits his Shield hard. Gladiolus stumbles back, and Titus catches him by the sleeve of his jacket and rights him. 

“I think I’m gonna be sick…” is all Noctis has to say when his feet are reunited with the ground. He stumbles, and Titus catches him too, a firm grip on his upper arm while the prince empties the contents of his stomach into the dirt. His anger from before has dissipated, Titus simply sighs as the prince rights himself, face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and fading adrenaline. From the look on his face it’s obvious he expects a harsh scolding, and Titus doesn’t have it in him at this point to give it. 

“We’ll work on it next time, and we’ll be a bit more careful.” The prince nods, silent and dejected, but lets Titus push him forward gently towards his fretting friends. “Keep an eye on him, and let me know when he’s ready for his next training session.”

“Of course, Captain,” Ignis replies, focus mostly on his ward. Titus does not press the issue, lets the young men guide their prince out of the training yard without further comment, and sighs deeply only once they’re long gone. He could really use a drink, but the prospect of drinking alone in his apartment is unappealing and he won’t let himself consider the other option. After his paperwork of the day is finished, a report on the prince’s training he does not look forward to writing, he’ll simply have to stew on his thoughts alone and unaided by alcohol. A familiar ritual that holds little appeal now, but he will do what he must.

~X~

There is no news from the Prince for the next few days, leaving Titus in an awkward limbo. His routine has been so sporadic lately as it is that he’s not entirely sure how he should plan anything. There was no sort of repercussions after the prince’s training incident, and yet Titus feels like he’s being punished simply by having no structure to his usually busy schedule. He almost finds himself wishing for the Glaives to be deployed to some skirmish, but the front has been quiet and he quickly shakes the idea from his mind. So Titus finds himself with more free time then he cares to have, and does his best not to think about the things chewing at the forefront of his thoughts. No prince, no Niflheim, and no Cor. Though the latter remains the hardest to shake. So instead of sparring or drinks Titus manages to find more menial paperwork to do then he thought possible, and tries to figure out when Cor Leonis had become such a staple in his free time.

His phone rings as he’s going over maintenance reports, which are unsurprisingly, the most boring document he’s ever read, and he grabs at it absently. He doesn’t recognize the number, but he’s learned to answer regardless, simple relieved that it's not Cor or anyone else with the potential to complicate his day. At least he tells himself that as he answers. 

“This is Drautos.”

“Hey, Drautos,” The prince. Titus can hardly mask his surprise. 

“Your Highness?” 

“I uh, I took your advice. Found a nice fishing spot. Was wondering if you could come give me a few pointers?” He sits there stunned for a moment, not quite believing what he’s hearing, not sure what to say but knowing he can’t refuse. 

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Great! I’ll send you the address, and uh, thank you.” He hangs up before Titus can answer, and he is left with an odd twisting feeling in his gut. The address he receives is a fair distance from headquarters, along a secluded part of the river that neatly cuts through the city. He’ll have to take a car to get there in any sort of timely manner so he sheds his armor and manages to find a somewhat discreet jacket in his office and heads down to the garage beneath the building. Titus doesn’t make a habit of driving the Citadel vehicles parked at HQ, out of routine more than anything, and never for recreational use, but it's a necessity now. So he finds the most nondescript car in the small underground lot beneath HQ and follows the navigation system’s careful directions to the park. 

There’s a fair amount of cars parked in the lot when he arrives, but luckily he doesn’t see much of a crowd, most off along the riverbank trails, he spots a group of children on the opposite bank skipping stones, and a lone figure sitting at the dock. It’s quiet, peaceful. The tense set of his shoulders eases, there’s nothing to fear, no reason to be so alert. 

He sees Ignis first, sitting on a park bench near the little dock looking horribly misplaced. To the unknowing eye he must look like a simple business man enjoying a break, but Titus notices the little ticks, his glances towards the dock, the way his eyes never stay on his computer for more than a second, the occasional nervous tap of his foot. Titus doesn’t stop to greet him, they share a nod in passing, an acknowledgment, as Titus heads down to where the prince struggles with his gear. The pole comes back too far as the prince botches the angle of his back-swing and when he casts the line he takes the edge of his jacket with it, pulling the fabric almost completely over his head and sputtering out a curse as he thrashes against his cotton prison.

“If you don’t stop moving you’ll only make it worse.”

“Drautos? When did you get here?” 

“In time to see you catch yourself, Highness,” he replies dryly, debating with himself for a moment before crouching behind the prince and carefully extracting the barbed lure from his clothes. Noctis adjusts himself, until he can look up at him with an embarrassed scowl. Titus sits next to him, only a little awkward, staring out at the water for a long moment. “Hooks are dangerous, if you’re not careful when you cast your line you can catch skin instead of fish. It hurts, badly.” 

“That happen to you?” 

“Only once,” he says, holding out his right hand where a faint scar still lingers on the soft skin between his thumb and index finger. Noctis winces at the sight. “Once is all it takes to learn the lesson.”

“Makes sense.” The prince shrugs, shifting awkwardly, like he’s just realized exactly how strange the whole situation is. “Here,” he leans over to where a pristine new tackle box sits next to him, until he produces another fishing rod Titus hadn’t noticed before. “I got two, thought it would be easier to learn that way.” He takes it carefully, the weight different from what he remembers from so many years ago. It's a good rod. Seemingly basic, not the gaudy expensive sort he would expect someone like the prince to choose. “So uh, how do I do this right?” 

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve gone fishing, Your Highness.” The rod is light in his hand, and he runs his fingers over the mix of textures and materials, checking the reel and line. 

“Fishing is an art, Titus, just like your mother’s weaving and the watchman’s swordplay. You must treat it like an art, and you must treat your tools with the same respect a warrior gives his blade.” He shifts his hold, like his father had showed him, hands careful but firm around the wood.

“So I hold it like this then?” Prince Noctis pulls him from the memory before he can get lost in it, and the image of his father fades, his voice lost on the light breeze. When he turns his head the boy is holding his fishing rod in a mirror image of himself, and Titus notices that his own hands have found their way to the proper position on the handle and reel. 

“Yes,” he replies, gripping until his knuckles turn white and his breathing evens. He’s faced greater challenges than this. Titus inhales slowly, he will stay in the now, not be lost in the past. Teaching the prince of Lucis to fish is hardly the worst thing he has done in the name of his cause. Just breathe, and let it be done, he tells himself. For hearth and home. 

“Now what?” The prince’s fingers twitch against the handle, eager but unsure. Titus takes a good look at the lines on both fishing rods, both threaded surprisingly well, lures shaped like carbuncles in vibrant colors dangling above the hooks. 

“You did well with the lines,” he says, eyes focused on the water, upper body testing little movements as the old muscle memory comes back to him slowly. 

“Really? Thanks. Watched a couple videos on my phone, didn’t even stick myself with the hook.” Titus glances over to catch the prince beaming with pride and quickly looks away. 

“Make sure you keep your shoulders even,” he says, continuing the lesson. “Let your dominant hand take the weight, that's right. Keep your finger on the line, don’t let it go just yet.” Noctis mirrors his every move, watching with the same amount of focus if not more that he showed back in the training ring at HQ. “Now flick your line back just enough to see the bend at the tip, pick a spot on the water to aim for and then release your finger when the top of your rod is halfway there.” As he says it he casts his line, a perfect arc and then bob as the lure hits the water. So familiar, something he hasn’t done in years but used to be second nature. “It’s all about timing, your highness, just like when you throw a blade.”

“Timing. Got it.” Noctis takes a deep breath and does as advised. His lure plops rather sadly not far from the dock itself, and Noctis sighs as he reels it in to try again. Unlike his training at HQ Noctis says nothing at his initial failure, and Titus remains silent, focuses on where his lure is a small still spot of white on the water’s surface, glancing at the prince every so often from the corner of his eye. 

On his third try the prince gets it, and his lure lands with a gentle splash, not as far out as Titus’s own, but not bad.

“Yes!” Noctis cheers quietly to himself, and though Titus tries to fight it the corner of his mouth turns upward for a second at the boy’s success. There’s a warm memory tickling his mind, and an ache in his chest, and his thoughts drift as they sit there. 

It’s quiet for the most part. On occasion the prince asks him a question about what to do when he gets a bite, or how to tell if a spot is good for fishing, and Titus answers them all with easy guidance. Nothing but the water and sky, faint laughter from people walking the riverside trails, and the feel of eyes from the prince’s ever watchful chamberlain, until he seems fit to leave them alone, though Titus knows he’s still watching from somewhere. He doesn’t mind all this as much as he thought, it's familiar in it's own way, and Titus actually finds that he’s enjoying himself. Dangerous though it may be he thinks about Niflheim while he sits amiably beside the prince of Lucis. This boy is not his father, and Titus can’t help but remember flashes of his terrified face those years ago in Tenebrae. Would he have killed him then if the Empire had ordered it? Could he have done it? He’d spared Ravus Nox Fleuret even as he’d killed his mother, couldn’t bring himself to do it despite the atrocities he’d done that day. And then the young prince’s lure bobs in the water, and the boy lets out an excited gasp, leaning forward, practically vibrating with excitement. 

“I got one!” Despite himself Titus feels a swell of pride mingled excitement as he watches him reel it in.

“Slowly! Ease up or the tension will snap the line. You must wear it down, follow it with your rod, reel when there’s slack. Just take it slow.” Noctis nods, brow furrowed in concentration as he takes the advice Titus gives him. 

Minutes tick by as the fish is slowly reeled in, perhaps a bit too slow, but the boy will learn with practice. Finally, as the sky begins to fade from blue to orange, Noctis brings in his catch. It’s a decent sized trout, an impressive first catch, and Titus can’t stop himself before he’s clapping the prince lightly on the shoulder. 

“Excellent work, Your Highness, that’s a fine first catch.” The boy beams at the praise, and Titus feels that thing twist in his gut. 

“Thanks! I uh, wow, I can’t believe I actually did it.” As if to emphasize his point the trout struggles, flicking fresh water onto them both. “Uh, what do I do now?” There’s no bucket at their feet when Titus looks, and Titus reaches out to take the squirming fish in his hand. 

“You let it go, this one at least. Maybe next time you’ll have the means to keep it. There’s no better meal than fresh fish.” He adjusts his hold, turns his hand so Noctis can watch his every move. “Careful with the hook, don’t want to hurt yourself or the fish anymore than necessary, your grip is important.” Expertly he removes the hook from the fish’s gaping mouth, and when he’s sure the prince has a grasp on the lesson he tosses the trout back into the river. They watch it swim off for a minute, reveling in silent victory. “It’s getting late, Your Highness.”

“Yeah,” Noctis sighs and Titus doesn’t let himself wonder if it's disappointment he hears. 

They gather up the supplies, putting things back in their proper places in the tackle box, and walk from the short dock back up the trail to the parking lot. Ignis is waiting in the car, and the Amicitia boy is leaning against the driver’s side door, they’re deep in conversation, but they stop when they notice their prince return. 

“Thanks for the lesson I guess,” the prince says, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head and looking almost sheepish. 

“It was no trouble, Highness,” he replies automatically, and then with a little more thought adds, “you did well for your first attempt.” 

“I did, huh? Better keep at it then.” Noctis shifts and then steps forward a few paces before turning back to wave. “I’ll see you for training, Drautos, and I’ll get it next time!” Then he’s off to join his retainers. 

Titus hangs back as Ignis pops the trunk, and Gladiolus helps the prince load the gear inside. Then with a final wave out the open car window they depart and Titus stands in their wake until the sun dips so low that it's hidden behind Insomnia’s skyscrapers. A long breath leaves him, and when he’s steadied himself he returns to his borrowed car for the drive home.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I updated this, life has kinda been kicking my ass lately so updates may be coming slower than the impressive once a month I had going on. Updates will probably slower for a while now. The good news is that we're nearing the end, there's about five chapters left to this little project of mine unless im stuck with an insatiable need for more. The origin of this being a smut oneshot is going to shine through now, since there's going to be a lot of it, but plot will be there don't worry. There will be a sequel, so when all is said and done here keep an eye out for that. 
> 
> This chapter is not my best, like I said life's been getting me and I'm impressed I was even able to write at all. Thanks everyone for sticking with this. It's become an absolute labor of love that would not have been possible without all the positive feedback I've been getting on here and tumblr. Thank you.
> 
> Unbetad because its past midnight so yeah forgive the mistakes i shall fix them tomorrow

There was a little bakery tucked away in the tight streets near his apartment he once passed every morning that smelled like home. Back in his little village he used to eat as many bread rolls as he could stomach, they were light and airy and tasted like salt and herbed butter on the best days. He’d spotted those rolls amongst other familiar treats in the tiny window of that shop when he first came to Insomnia. Once, years into his stay and no closer to his goal, his mouth had watered with the temptation, heart aching and homesick, and it was that intense desire that made him walk away. On occasion he walks by it again, lets the smell fill his nose and allows his mind to conjure half forgotten images from home. But to this day he has never once allowed himself to purchase one of those rolls. 

He avoids Cor as much as he can now for the same reason he avoids that bakery. Because he wants, and wanting is dangerous. Of course it's different, wanting to taste a memory and wanting a man, but to Titus it's the same principle. To want is folly, and to have anything is weakness. A weakness he cannot allow. But the desire is there and won’t leave no matter how hard he tries to escape its grasp on his body. That’s the problem really, his body wants, craves the touch, the feel of the marshal’s body tangled with his own and the pleasure it brought. Memories that leave him hard and aching in the lonely quiet of his apartment, echoed feelings that refuse to be banished despite his many attempts to turn his thoughts away. Cold showers can only do so much, and once he’s in bed the desires are back to pester him again. He remembers it all so clearly. Like he can reach out in the dark and feel Cor’s skin beneath his fingers, hear the little hitching stutters in his breathing as Titus touched him. His hand is a poor substitute for the marshal’s expert fingers, or the hot tight heat of his body, but he makes do, strokes himself to completion rough and merciless until his body calms and he can be angry at himself again. 

So he avoids the man, which is easy for the most part, because their paths don’t often cross on a normal schedule, and he shoves that want away and mostly succeeds in ignoring it. Not seeing Cor is strange, but easier now that they both seem to be ignoring each other. Part of him hates it, the lonely foolish bit of weakness, and he stomps it down. Again he reminds himself that such feelings are for fools, and he has no use for them. For hearth and home, nothing more. He trains the prince, a much easier task now than before, and works with the Glaives at Headquarters and their deployment into Leide for a small skirmish hardly worth their time. Things settle somewhat, and Titus eases into his new routine with a tight reign on his bitterness as the months pass him by.

It should be an easy day now. The prince has started practicing in the training yard, warping about with relative ease. If he does well this will be his last time officially training at Glaive HQ. Titus hopes he succeeds, the quicker he’s gone the quicker things will truly settle back to something easy. Noctis hasn’t asked him to fish since that first time, and Titus is extremely grateful for the fact. Since their quiet teaching on the docks Titus as felt himself waver. His ultimate goal has not changed, Lucis will fall and it's king will die by his vengeful hand, but the prince… Titus has no desire to harm the prince. Folly though it may be. Of course it's a prospect out of sight and mind for now, but the quicker Titus can get the boy away from his company the better. He simply watches, eyes taking in everything, from the prince’s warping to his shield practicing with him, to the Glaives content to do their own work in the yard without feeling the need to clear out for His Highness, and Prompto Argentum taking pictures of it all. Boots crunching against the sand fails to capture his attention until it's too late.

“Captain Drautos, I hate to intrude but His Majesty requested I observe the prince’s last training session with the Glaives, he’s curious about his progress.” Cor’s voice is even, and Titus refuses to look at him as the man comes up to stand beside him. They haven't spoken beyond curt greetings and formalities in the rare moments the pass each other in the Citadel. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to break the stalemate they’ve set in place. It’s easier to leave things as they are, uncomfortable as it may be. 

“Of course,” he replies, eyes forward, slipping into his best mask of nonchalance. Cor stands beside him for a while before he breaks the awkward silence.

“Never thought I’d see the prince look happy while training, all I ever get is scowls.” Titus recognizes the attempt at humor and the corner of his mouth twitches, a witty response caught and subdued before he replies.

“His highness has come far, I doubt he’ll need more from me or the Glaive.”

“You’ve done wonders, Drautos, we all see it.”

“Perhaps a firm hand was all he needed,” he says, eyes still forward, the set of his shoulders easing a bit.

“You callin’ me a pushover, Captain?” There it is again, that touch of humor. Titus doesn’t resist this time.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps? Next time we spar I’ll have to stop holding back.” 

“Is that why it’s been easy to beat you?”

“You’re an ass,” Cor says but when Titus glances over at him to judge his mood Cor laughs, warmly, richly, soft enough that he’s sure only he hears it. There’s a wide unguarded smile on his face, one hand held up as if to hide it, but Titus sees it, and can’t help but smile back, a small and rare thing. 

There’s a loud clang from the other side of the training yard, and the smile falls from his face instantly as he turns toward the sound. Gladiolus has somehow manage to lodge his practice greatsword into the central pillar, and the prince is bent over laughing as he tugs helplessly a few times before managing to pull it free. Nothing is amiss, training resumes, but the lighthearted spell between him and Cor is broken. Cor sighs beside him, and Titus doesn’t need to look to know his hace has also fallen into something serious. 

“We need to talk.” Titus lets out a long breath. 

“I know,” he agrees, though part of him still wishes to avoid it this stubborn ignorance between them needs to end.

“Talk over drinks at my place? Just drinks,” Cor quickly assures, “Private that way.” 

“Yeah, that works,” Titus grunts with a nod, sure that if he spoke any more it would only serve to make the awkwardness worse. Cor exhales, as if he’d been holding his breath for Titus’s answer.

“I’m free Saturday night if that works, let me know and we’ll sort out the rest.” 

“I think we can manage that,” he says, and though neither of their expressions change he can see the relief in Cor’s eyes.

~X~

Over the course of his life Cor has run into his fair share of dilemmas, but somehow this mess he’s made with Drautos is giving him more trouble than anything in recent years. He knows he should have left well enough alone, should have ignored his attraction, his desire, and let things stay simple and easy between them. Of course they both hold blame for what happened and the resulting aftermath, but the root of it all was him and he knows it. But there’s hope for them now he thinks as he swirls the wine in his glass, Drautos accepted his offer to talk and that was a start. They could still fix this.

“You alright, Cor? You’ve been staring at your wine for a solid minute like it's going to start talking.” He looks up at Monica, her face concerned, her food forgotten on her side of the table.

“It’s nothing, Monica, don’t worry about it.”

“Mhm,” she gives him a skeptical look, “I know something's wrong, Cor, you’ve been acting strange for months. Talk to me,” she says almost pleading, “you know you can tell me anything.” The way she says it, so honest and concerned, has Cor willing to talk.

“It’s complicated,” he starts, a rather cliche thing to say but there really no other way to describe it.  
“Is it about ‘Friendly Drinks’?” Of course Monica would figure it out. Cor sighs.

“Yes,” he admits.

“So what happened? I thought you were getting along great, you never-” she interrupts herself suddenly, expression shifting to surprise as she lowers her voice, “you slept together!” Cor feels heat rise to his cheeks and hides it with a long sip of wine.

“Yes, we did.”

“So what’s the problem?” Monica cocks her head like it’s a simple question and it should be, but Cor is all too aware that it’s not. 

“We shouldn’t have, it-” he sighs. “We crossed a line, and I’m afraid it ruined everything.” Monica says nothing, just waits for him to continue so he takes a deep breath and lays it all bare. “I’m not looking for a relationship, neither is he, it just happened and well,” he feels like he’s rambling, he must be, so he trails off and waits for Monica to grant some sort of wisdom like she always does when he needs it most.

“Have you talked to him about it? Can’t you patch things up?”

“Uh, no, no we haven’t…” Monica gives him a look.

“How long ago was this?”

“Almost three months,” he admits after a long moment.

“And you haven’t talked since?”

“Not yet.”

“Astrals above Cor!” He flinches, though he does deserve it. “You need to talk about these things! I know you won’t tell me who he is, but you’re birds of a feather if you still haven’t discussed what happened.” When put like that it's hard for Cor to deny how immature he’s been about the whole thing, well they’ve both been, avoiding each other like it never happened, like they were never friends. 

“I know,” he sighs, fingers tapping at the base of his wine glass. “We’re planning to talk Saturday night.”

“Well that's a good start,” Monica says, calmer now, still with that worried look in her eyes. “What’s the problem then?”

 

“You know I’m not good at this, Monica. I don’t want anything serious but…”

“But you want it to happen again?” Cor sighs again and doesn’t have it in him to be ashamed. 

“Yeah.” He takes another sip of wine. 

“So you’re interested in being friends with benefits?” Monica says plainly, and Cor nods slowly, not really willing to say it aloud because damn what a stupid idea. “Talk to him about it, you’ll never get anywhere unless you talk about it. Promise me you’ll do that, Cor.”

“I’ll try,” he says honestly.

“That's good enough for me,” she smiles at him. “Now how about we split one of those chocolate cakes, can’t miss out on the best part of dinner can we?” 

“Wouldn’t be dinner if we missed dessert, but we’re cutting it in half before we start, I don’t trust you with chocolate after last time.” 

 

“Touche.” Cor smiles, his first one of the night, and they laugh lightly together while they wait.

~X~

Saturday arrives a bit too fast, and once his duties are done for the day he spends his time fretting and pacing his apartment. Really the whole situation was ridiculous, Monica was right, they were both adults, he and Drautos could damn well act like it. How hard was it to talk and smooth things over? There’s a knock on his door, just one abrupt knock that could have easily been missed if he weren’t so hyper aware of everything. Maybe that was the point, but Cor hears it and steals himself to answer. Whiskey burns his throat as he takes a too large sip before getting up from the table. He takes a deep breath before he opens the door, and Drautos greets him on the other side in plain clothes and an awkward stiffness in his usual blank expression.

“Hey,” he says rather dumbly before he steps aside and gestures for Drautos to come in. “Drinks are on the table,” he adds, an almost bribe, but Drautos steps past him into the room anyway to remove his shoes. He’s not wearing the ridiculously tall boots that the Glaives usually wear, just old simple things that have seen better days. And he really shouldn’t be that interested in his boots. 

Once they’re both at the table it's quiet, tense and awkward as they both wait for the other to speak. Cor breaks the stalemate, unable to take it any longer. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages, though it's hard to say, “about that night.”

“Don’t,” Drautos replies, “we are both to blame. It was my mistake as much as yours.” Right, Cor reminds himself even as the words sting, it had been a mistake, one that almost cost them their hard won friendship. 

“At least it could have been worse, the sex could have been bad.” His poor attempt to lighten the mood changes the atmosphere almost immediately. He catches the subtle twitch of Drautos’s lips, before the man’s expression settles into something guarded and unreadable. Shit.

“It was good,” Drautos agrees, swirling the liquid in his glass and keeping his eyes firmly fixated on the motion. Cor realizes he has a choice to make then. Either he can let their friendship ease back into the way it was, or he can take a chance and see if Drautos wants to repeat their mistake as much as he does. 

“I wouldn’t mind doing it again,” he says, trying to keep the tone light and casual. “Friends with benefits could be beneficial to us both.” Drautos stands abruptly and Cor’s heart sinks. Wrong move Leonis, he berates himself. But instead of storming out or telling him off Drautos does the last thing he expects. Large as he is Drautos makes it around the table in an instant, one hand curling around the back of Cor’s chair and the other planting firmly on the table, caging him in, eyes stormy and dark. 

“Is that what you want? 

“I think we can make it work,” he breathes, and reaches out to thread his fingers through the other man’s short hair and pull him down for a hungry kiss. Drautos lets him, kisses him back harshly, sloppy and needy until they're both struggling to find sense in it.

“If we do this,” he says, breathless as Drautos trails harsh kisses down his neck. “If we do this we set rules.” Drautos lifts his head, one brow arched, hair disheveled from his fingers running through it, lips plush and wet. For a moment he forgets what he was saying, entranced by the way Drautos looks so downright sinful. 

“How so?”

“We need ground rules, or this won’t work. We want to keep this under wraps we need boundaries or this will blow up in our faces, ” he tries to explain, but he’s having a hard time thinking of the words with the other man so close. He stands, pushes his chair in and puts enough space between them that he can think. Damn he wants this to work out, wants to balance their work and friendship and this new thing that could be so good. 

“Alright,” Drautos says. 

“We don’t let it get in the way of our duties or complicate our friendship again.” Drautos nods, and he continues. “And no feelings. If we think it's not working out we stop it, no questions asked."

“Agreed, that’s easy,” Drautos replies, like they’re discussing battle strategy and not the details of a sexual arrangement. Damn the man’s composure. “As long as this stays between us.”

“Of course,” Cor almost snorts, “like I want to flaunt it to the Citadel.”

“Point taken.” 

“Anything you’d like to add?” Titus steps closer, the briefest hesitation in his movements as he reaches for Cor’s hips to bring him closer. 

 

“I’ll let you know if I think of anything,” he says, voice low, and he goes back to nipping at Cor’s neck, grip tightening on his hips. Cor tilts his head back and lets him do as he pleases, until he feels teeth worry against the skin above his collar and Drautos gives an experimental suck. 

 

“No marks!” Though he arches into the touch he moves his hand to thread his fingers through messy hair and tugs until Drautos lifts his head. “You want this to be discreet? Then no marks.”

“No marks,” Drautos repeats. Cor leans up to kiss him again, partly in gratitude and mostly because the man was good to kiss. He wasn’t exactly good at it, still a little sloppy, almost like he was remembering how to do it, but the damn near overwhelming enthusiasm he put behind each meeting of their lips leaves Cor feeling almost senseless.

Cold marble against his back reminds him where they are, and he pulls his mouth away, hands dropping to the other man’s belt and pulling at it teasingly. 

“How about we move this?” Drautos nods, and this time Cor doesn’t need to lead him back with a grip on his belt, instead Drautos uses the grip he still has on Cor’s hips to spin them around and start walking them back towards the bedroom. 

It's not a graceful trip. He almost trips over his own feet when they pass the couch, and only Drautos and his reflexes keep him upright, then his back hits the wall near the door to his room and all the while he refuses to stop kissing Drautos for very long. This was real, not some sad late night fantasy he’s conjured over the past few months. Drautos was here, kissing him, pressing him back into the plaster and Cor feels a thrill run through him at the sudden prospect of being fucked right there. Maybe next time. An even better thought that, next time. Now he wants his bed beneath him and Drautos on top of him, so he pushes lightly and Drautos gives him room to breathe without question. Now that they’re doing this Cor remembers why the idea was so appealing, beyond the obvious benefits. Drautos makes his way into Cor’s bedroom without speaking, working his belt off and tossing it somewhere to be found later. The trust they’ve built over the years lays bear here, in the way this is so easy, the awkwardness from their conversation worn off now in the heat of the moment, and it's nice. Very nice. Cor watches with rapt attention as Drautos strips his shirt, tossing it aside as well. A hum of appreciation leaves him as he steps closer, eyeing the newly revealed skin.

“You didn’t give me a chance to look before,” he says, eyeing Drautos up and down, all thick muscle and scarred skin and he’s not sure which he’s more interested in looking at right now. On his chest alone there are more than Cor cares to count, some jagged, some long, those faded, and many dark and lingering. All paint a dark picture of a warrior’s life. He lifts his hand, intent on tracing a rather nasty scar on the right side of his chest, but when his fingers touch it, soft and careful, Drautos flinches and snatches his wrist.

“Don’t,” Drautos says, voice strained. “Don’t be gentle.” Cor stops instantly, eyes searching the man’s face and only seeing a pain he was desperately trying to hide. Cor can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about more than just the scars.

“Alright,” he says and Drautos releases his hold. “We’ll keep it rough.” When his hand finds skin this time it's to dig his nails in and lean up for another bruising kiss. As he pulls away he flicks the dusky nipple beneath his hands and doesn’t receive much of a response, but Drautos pulls at the bottom of his shirt and Cor eagerly helps him get it over his head.

Big hands move up his sides, calluses rough against the smooth skin and Cor presses into the touch, letting Drautos set the pace. When the man reaches his chest he pauses, then one of his thumbs swipes out to brush his nipple and Cor sighs. Drautos pulls back to watch him and does it again, and Cor makes a show of biting his lip, fingers dipping in to tease the waistband of the other man’s pants.

“Take these off,” Drautos doesn’t make a show of it, but he shucks the bottom half of his clothes off, socks and all, quicker than Cor expected. Drautos’s cock, as large as he remembered, was already stiff and leaking. He feels the strong urge to drop to his knees and take it into his mouth, and as tempting as it is he’s aching for it elsewhere, and he still has that next time. “Damn.”

“Are you going to say that every time?” Drautos says, voice low and almost teasing as he pulls Cor closer by the waistband of his pants.

“You complaining?” He wraps his fingers around the man’s impressive length and anything witty he might have said dissolves into a soft groan as Cor strokes him. Smirking in triumph he tilts his head and nips at his adam’s apple until Drautos grabs him by the hips and sends him stumbling towards his bed. 

Somehow he manages to shift himself up the bed and slip his sweats off in the same movement, and he’s hardly flung the fabric away before the bed dips. In invitation he spreads his legs, and Drautos takes it eagerly, settling himself between his thighs and shuddering as their cocks brush. He reaches up towards the nightstand, fumbling against the wood as his fingers stretch out for the handle and fail to grasp it. Before he can move to make things easier Drautos stretches over him, opening the drawer and digging through it for a moment for depositing what Cor was after on the bed beside them. Cor pulls him down for a grateful, probing kiss, rocking his hips up until Drautos grabs his hip and keeps him down. He chuckles, and Drautos shoots him a dangerous look before dropping his head to his chest and taking one of his nipples into his mouth. He barely stops the sound that almost leaves him as Drautos laves his chest with attention, finally grazing the nipple with his teeth and moving on to the other. Pleasure rushes through him, his cock twitches between them, and Cor threads his fingers through that mussed brown hair and tugs. Drautos releases him with a wet sound, expression serious when their eyes meet. 

“Get on with it,” he sounds demanding to his own ears and Drautos pauses, eyes searching.

“You’re sure?” It was almost ironic considering their positions. He’d been ready, cleaned and cleansed ahead of time with the hope that this would happen, just as had that first night, fully prepared and expecting to take matters into his own hands. Honestly he didn’t expect to end up like this, and he didn’t expect Drautos to be so suddenly in need of assurances. It was almost sweet, almost. His fingers seek and find the bottle beside him, and he holds the lube up between them.

“I’m sure. Are you?” Wordlessly Drautos takes the bottle from him, rocking back on his knees and popping the cap before spreading some of the lube on his fingers. Answer enough, Cor thinks, the bottle ends up beside him again and slick fingers slip between his legs, one circling his entrance slowly before pressing inside at an aching pace. His breathing hitches at the intrusion, the start of a delicious stretch. 

Drautos doesn’t look at him as he works him open with much more finesse than last time. He could tell from their first time that it had been a while for the other man as well, he’d been attentive but clumsy and Cor had the sneaking suspicion that he was quite possibly the first man Drautos had ever been with from the way he’d been almost unsure that night. The thought was more pleasing than it probably should be, but Cor had little time to dwell on it as Drautos worked him up to two fingers and then three with a purposeful confidence he lacked before.

“Damn you catch on fast,” Cor laughs and the breathy sound quickly turns into a low moan as Drautos curls his fingers and presses against his prostate. Drautos chuckles, removing his fingers only to wrap them around Cor’s length, and Cor barely chokes back the whine that almost leaves him. He pulls Drautos down for another kiss as his fingers grasp along the bed sheets until he finds the foil packet. He pulls away to open it, holding the other man’s gaze as he takes him in hand to roll the condom down his length.

“We do this every time, no exceptions,” he says once the rubber is on before reaching for the lube again, Titus nods, eyes closed.  
“Alright,” he replies, voice strained as Cor slicks his covered length with lube before laying back, feet planted firmly on the bed so he can rock his hips up. 

Not needing further instruction Drautos takes the hint, and guides himself to Cor’s entrance. It starts slow, a rocking press as Drautos works himself inside with the same care of their first time. There’s no need, but Cor doesn’t urge him on until he feels Drautos bottom out the stretch oh so good. Their breathing mingles as Drautos stills, shuddering and shaky.

“Don’t be gentle,” he echoes from before and Drautos looks at him with those searching grey eyes before he pulls back and snaps his hips forward. Cor gasps, hands flying up to claw at those broad shoulders as Drautos drops his head against his chest and does it again, thick cock filling him in the best way.

They set a fast pace, moving together with surprising ease, creating their own tempo of panting groans and the slap of skin. Both of them bite at skin just shy of bruising licking away sweat and curling hands against skin. There’s an almost grace to the way they come together, the way Drautos slides inside him and he rises to meet his thrusts, something they were missing that first time and makes this one all the better. Though this time his partner’s thrusts are even and sure, Cor wants more, working his hand between them to take hold of his straining cock and working it in time with the meeting of their hips. He’s close, so close to that blissful edge. Nails dig into skin as he nears his orgasm, and Drautos shifts the angle, fucking him hard. One thrust nails his prostate and he shatters, mouth open and soundless as the world whites out and he comes between them, taking the other man with him.

Drautos wastes no time in pulling out, and he has to bite back a moan at the loss as the other man rolls away. Breathing heavy, sweat drying on his skin, Cor throws an arm over his eyes and almost laughs at it all. There will bruises on his hips tomorrow from the death grip Drautos had on his hips but damn it was worth it. He can’t remember the last time he’d had sex that good, or the last time he came that hard.

“Shit,” he chuckles. The bed dips beside him as Drautos stands and he glances over at him under his arm. A horrific scar across the length of his back makes Cor’s next comment die. Scars cover the man, he’s seen most of them now, but none compare to the one on his back, from his right shoulder to his left hip, a jagged line that holds a dark secret Cor’s not sure he wants to know. It’s not his place, that’s not what this is, so he shakes his head, lets his hand run down his face and thinks about how good the sex was instead. 

“Speechless?” Drautos comments, already across the room and pulling his shirt over his head. Cor sits up, admiring the muscles of his bare legs and the firmness of his ass.

“Ha! Hardly,” he scoffs, grabbing a handful of tissues from the nightstand to quickly wipe away the mess from his skin. “You’ll have to do more than that to leave me speechless.” 

“That a challenge, Marshal?”

“Maybe, you’ll just have to see next time, Captain,” he says, almost a question, the last chance for either of them to back out.

“I think we can make it work,” Drautos replies, the barest hint of a smirk in his expression as he adjusts his pants around his hips. It’s all the answer Cor needs, and he’s content to grin and watch the other man dress with an appreciative stare. 

“I’ll see you around, Drautos.” It’s not much of a goodbye, but Drautos stops at the door to his bedroom to meet his eyes and nod. 

“Of course,” he pauses. “Don’t forget you still owe me a spar.” Cor laughs and waves him off feeling lighter than he has in long time. No horrible dread looming this time as Drautos leaves. He hears his front door close after a few minutes, and finally gets up from the bed so he can take a much needed shower. This would work out great, he was sure of it now, glad that one thing in his hectic life could be simple and easy.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me so long to get out but it's finally done. Not really what I expected when I started it, but I'm glad to be back in the swing of things. It was pretty hard to get my writing groove back with everything that's been going on with my life, and while I don't feel like this is my strongest bit of work I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. As long as I'm actually writing I've decided I'm gonna be happy about it.
> 
> This fic turned a year old on the 2nd and I have to thank all of you who have been with this since the beginning because honestly without your support I don't think I could have got this far. This is officially the longest thing I've ever written, and proof to myself that I can finish things and be consistent if I really try, so thank you so much. 
> 
> And now that I've got that sappiness out of the way here's an extra long chapter as thanks.
> 
> Also do I even have to say it anymore?  
> Unbetad.

Crumbling buildings and dust makes it hard to see much of anything, Titus heaves a frustrated sound as he lowers the binoculars from his eyes. Even within the remains of the village’s limits it was impossible to see which way the tide of battle was flowing, and he hated having to rely on the infrequent comm chatter from Glaives as they fought amongst the ruins. 

“We’ve lost the advantage, Captain,” Luche’s voice crackles over the comm. “What should we do?”

“Fall back and hold the line, as long as we keep them in the perimeter we still have a chance,” he replies, and then speaks into the open channel. “All units fall back, keep the Nifs contained and watch yourselves.” 

“What happens if they break the line?” Tredd looks over at him, the man had come back to report the situation on the further outskirts of the battle thanks to a broken comm, and it was only them and a quiet and focused Axis waiting for the other Glaives to group up at the entrance. 

“If they break the line we’ll have no choice to make a full retreat.”

“And abandon the village,” Axis adds suddenly, moving up beside them while he adjusted his gloves. 

“At least it’s empty anyway,” Tredd shrugs, “except for us.” Titus says nothing, still alert, and Axis only shakes his head. Suddenly the comm crackles to life in his ear. 

“We’ve got MA-X units dropping in! One. Two. Three. What do-” the Glaive is cut off abruptly in a hiss of static and Titus doesn’t have any time to wonder if it's another casualty. 

“Incoming!” Tredd disappears in a flash of blue as he warps back, but he and Axis aren’t so quick. The building to their left, the already crumbling remains of it at least, explode as the missile finds its target, and Titus has no time to think, he simply grabs Axis around the shoulders and pushes him down as debris begin to rain down upon their heads. 

There is nothing but silence and crushing weight, but as far as Titus can tell he’s in one piece, and Glauca still slumbers beneath the surface of his skin. His ears are still ringing from the blast, but faintly he can hear the desperate scrambling above him. 

“Captain!” It sounds far away, but Titus knows his ears are recovering slower than his mind. He tries to move, but the weight above him keeps him in place, and suddenly he has to fight to keep himself from panicking, memories trying desperately to crawl into his perception. Axis groans and shifts, and Titus is grateful for the distraction. They were both alive then. The bits of concrete pressing against his back shift and lift away, and he sucks in a deep breath previously denied to him thanks to its weight. 

“Shit, Captain, you alright?” Tredd he thinks, now that his hearing is finally starting to clear and focus. He tries to reply but all that comes out is a cough. 

“Careful,” Luche snaps, and then there are two sets of hands against him, pulling him free. “We got you, Captain.” There's only a slight ache in his bones as the two Glaives lift him up and drag him away, and he catches a glimpse of Tredd and Sonitus pulling Axis from the rubble, unconscious but very much alive. 

“Order a full retreat,” he croaks, dust choking his lungs and making his throat dry. “We need to retreat.” 

“Yes, Captain,” Luche says. “You got him?” he asks the Glaive on his other side.

“I’ve got him,” Yura affirms, taking the rest of his weight as Luche moves off to execute his command. 

They fall back, and it takes longer than he’d like to support his own weight and send Yura to do something more useful. Eventually they make it back to the vans, battered and bloodied, numbers less than they were but not as much as Titus expected, though it's something to be dealt with when they’re a safe distance from Niflheim’s new victory. Gingerly he lowers himself into the passenger’s seat of one of the vans, the big Glaive Decima already buckled in and ready to drive them the long way back to Insomnia. The van is silent save for his squadron check ins, something that will be done more in depth back at headquarters, and when he’s done he falls quiet, and can’t help when the steady rumbling rock of the vehicle lulls him into an uneasy but much needed sleep.

~X~

Cor lets out a gasp, fingers tightening on the sheets beneath him as Titus rocks into him again. This was exactly what he needed after the Kingsglaive’s last mission, the perfect way to work out the tightly coiled tension threatening to snap. He doesn’t think about the mission or the Empire when they’re like this. All his focus centers on the feelings and sounds of their intimacy, Cor’s tight heat around him, the way his breath hitches when he hits the right spot, the shudder that passes through him when Titus can’t help but groan lowly at his pleasure. Despite his initial trepidation he had to admit this arrangement between them really was the perfect way to relieve the pent up tension. There was, as Cor had promised those months ago, nothing gentle between them when they fucked, just a raw need that was sated hard and fast and left at that. He appreciated it more than he thought he would, and it left him relaxed in a way that simple sparring or drinks couldn’t ever compare to, though those too had their time and place.

“Close,” Cor chokes on a moan, hips bucking back to meet him of their own accord. Titus quickens his pace, sliding one of his hands from Cor’s waist around to his cock and stroking it in time with his movements. 

It doesn’t take long with the dual attention before Cor comes, arching beneath him in silence as Titus rides him through his pleasure until he finds his own. His head falls to Cor’s shoulder as he catches his breath before pulling away, sweat cooling on his skin as they part. Cor slumps once he’s not there to support him, body sagging as he presses his face into his pillow with a satisfied hum. 

Admittedly he feels better, heart thumping and slowing back to a steady rhythm as he relaxes, content to lay on the bed for a moment longer. The pleasure had erased the echoed feeling of the crushing weight of rubble, and Titus stares at the ceiling for a while, feeling alive. 

“So,” Cor starts after a few minutes of comfortable silence, shifting on the bed only enough that his body is mostly turned towards him, head still resting on his pillow. “That sure did the trick.” Titus huffs an almost laugh, unable to deny the statement. 

“Yeah,” he says when his amusement fades, and with a sigh he sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The tension in his muscles and the ache in his bones has dulled to a buzz of feeling that was easily ignored, and he deftly removes the condom with practiced ease and deposits it in the nearby waste bin. Oh how easy habits came to be, Titus thinks, and Cor makes no move to stop him as he stands to search for his pants. The sore and bruised expanse of his back twinges in pain when he bends down, but his wince goes unnoticed. 

“You look like you got trampled by a garula,” Cor observes, having sat up on the bed at some point. Titus turns to Cor as he pulls his pants up his hips.

“Almost wish I had been.” He shrugs and the bruising pulls, his expression scrunching in discomfort. 

“Mind telling me what happened? You didn’t mention anything in your report.” Titus weighs his options for a moment, knows Cor will let it drop if he decides he doesn’t want to speak, but for once that doesn’t seem as appealing as it usually does.

“The Nifs took out a nearby building,” he says casually, and whether the Nifs knew if he was there or not matters little. “There wasn’t anything to do but take the hit. My Glaives dug me out of the rubble, and the medics checked me over in HQ, no need to add all that to the report. 

“Drautos,” Cor says and the concern flickers in his eyes and fades quickly as he catches himself. “You’re awfully spry considering a building fell on you.”

“I bounce back quick,” he replies dryly.

“No shit,” Cor laughs, but it's humorless. 

The silence stretches into something awkward and Titus clears his throat and resumes his search for his clothes. He finds his belt easy enough, but his shirt is still lost, until he looks up instead of down. Now how it got there Titus had no idea, but he moves across the room to the dresser against the wall where his shirt had landed as they’d undressed each other frantically and decides it's best not to question it. His reflection in the mirror hanging above the dresser does in fact look like shit now that he can see the extent of the bruising, but he ignores his own image, a talent he’d long since mastered. He lifts the black fabric carefully off the items beneath it, fingering the cloth in his hands as he looks at the various items atop the dresser. Of all the times he’d been here in this room he’d never exactly taken the time to look around, and now he finds himself quite distracted by doing just that. There’s not much, a small sculpture of a lion, a small basket full of papers, and a few photographs in neat little frames. It’s those that Titus finds his attention most drawn to.

The first is old, worn around the edges within the frame, but the four men in the image all pose around the front of a car smiling except for the one second to the right. Titus doesn’t recognize any of them, the image too blurry, either by fault of the photographer or the camera’s own quality he can’t tell. Next to it is an image of a young man, one from the first picture, standing stiffly in old Lucian military fatigues, a scowl turning his young features, familiar eyes glaring at the camera. Cor looks hardly old enough to be in such garb, hat almost too big for his head, but there’s a certain defiance to his gaze that seems to challenge anyone who would question him. When his eyes drift to the next he stops, almost shocked, it appears to be Cor, older, the uniform almost identical, standing stone faced before the camera. The woman next to him is smiling, one hand up in a happy wave while the other rests on her belly, and the pieces click together in an instant. 

“My parents,” Cor says from behind him, stretching in front of him to lift the photo up, giving Titus a better view. With the image closer he can see the subtle differences between Cor and his father, the features he inherited from his mother, but still the resemblance is striking.

“You look like your father,” he says stiffly. They’re straying past his point of comfort, but he can’t seem to keep his silence. He just had to go and look at old photographs.

“I heard that a lot growing up, guess now it's hard to deny.” Cor smiles, no joy in his eyes, only a far off look Titus was all too familiar with.

“Must be the scowl,” he says, still staring at the photo, and Cor snorts and shoulders him as he puts it back down. His fingers follow the path of Titus’s previous observation and come to rest on the photo of the young boy Titus has the sense to realize is Cor himself. 

“First day on the job,” He says with a laugh that sounds less forced. “I was such an angry little shit.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, kinda odd looking back on it now.” Titus doesn’t press him further as he looks at the next photo fondly. “I was a punk kid, it was a wonder they put up with me for the whole trip. Fifteen and trying to pick a fight with everything. Cid was the only one who could keep me in check.” His finger taps the image of the older man in the middle of the photo. Fifteen, Titus stares at the photo lost in his own memories. “Clarus could never get a decent shot.” Something clicks, the realization of who exactly was part of the photo, the man leaning against the car was Regis. Cold anger seeps into his system, and he feels himself close off before he can stop it.

“We all change with time,” he says, somehow managing to keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice. With some difficulty he pulls his undershirt back over his head, ending the conversation abruptly. 

“Guess you’re right,” Cor replies, and if he notices the reason for Titus’s sudden withdrawal he says nothing, simply places the photo back on the dresser before looking for his own shirt. It’s an out, one Titus is grateful for, and he moves away towards the bedroom door quickly. Cor’s eyes hold no judgment when they meet each other’s gaze across the room, he just looks at him plainly, as if they’d had to cut a night of drinking short, and Titus nods. 

“I’ll see you at the meeting,” he says, the closest thing to thanks and an apology he’ll ever give. And then he’s gone.

~X~

“We mustn't expend our resources on skirmishes that gain us nothing!”

Titus clenches his teeth, arms crossed across his chest to keep himself still as he listens to the small group of councilmen argue on the finer points of war. He had no desire to be present at this meeting, but the king had commanded it because of his station, and Captain Drautos could not deny the king. So here he was, amongst the great military minds of Insomnia, wishing that the floor would swallow him before he had to listen to Lord Larentin speak outside of his experience once more. Even one day of rest couldn’t be given to him after that last mission, he’d been lucky enough to have a night’s rest, and Titus knew that things would get no easier from here on out. 

“If we let Niflheim go unchecked then we run the risk of them mounting a full assault on the city. We cannot ignore their occupation of any nearby footholds no matter how small,” Clarus argues from his place beside Regis. As one of the only people present at the table who Titus views as having a valuable opinion, he listens to what the Shield has to say and nods his agreement, despite his deeper feelings. 

“You said it yourself in your report, Captain Drautos, that on the Kingsglaive’s latest mission the Empire deployed unanticipated firepower and forced a retreat. Is that not correct?” Larentin, an old man long gone white of hair had a tendency in these meetings to assume that he knew everything. He also held a disdain for immigrants within the Wall, which was no secret to any such immigrant within it. Titus meets his stare evenly. 

“Our mission was unorthodox from the beginning, Councilman. This was not a standard removal of Niflheim presence from a key point, this was an attempted and successful extraction of information. Which was also in my report if you recall.”

“Yes,” Councilman Scientia chimes in before Larentin can get an indignant word it, pushing his glasses up his nose in the same manner as his nephew. “Not only did the Kingsglaive survey data on Niflheim’s newest mech units, the were able to hack into one of their data banks and extract enough information for us to determine the location and timing of their next attack.”

“And where might that be?” From the opposite end of the table Councilwoman Elshett leans one elbow on the table, listening intently. 

“From what we gathered it will be either Mizar in Galahd or Gabrana in Cavough, the closest outposts to Insomnia. Their main targets in the last six months have been in Leide given it’s the most direct path from the Empire itself, I believe they’re moving on to get a gauge on our response times. Based off that assumption I wouldn’t be surprised if they attempted a dual assault.” Titus leans back, eyeing each person in turn, eyes falling lastly to the king, where they linger with unspoken question, before he shifts his gaze to rest on Larentin where he needn’t hide his glare. 

“If Niflheim does attempt a dual assault can the Kingsglaive handle it? Or would one outpost have to be ignored?” Titus shifts his attention to the councilman who asked, but before he can respond a formerly quiet attendant interrupts him. 

“There’s no need to split the Glaive if His Majesty would deploy part of the Crownsguard to the other point.” All eyes turn to Cor, sitting next to Clarus and looking almost as vexed as Titus felt. 

“We cannot risk deploying the Crownsguard lest we leave Insomnia without a line of defense. The army is no more, Marshal, the Crownsguard’s involvement outside the Wall is unnecessary.”

“Do you doubt the strength of the Wall or the strength of the Crownsguard?” Once more Larentin draws the ire of a man far more familiar with military strategy than himself. Cor manages to keep his composure as he asks the question through grit teeth, eyes like fire as he glares at the man. 

“It has nothing to do with the strength of the Wall or the Crownsguard’s capabilities, Cor,” Regis says, and Titus can see Cor’s indignation fizzle out though his glare remains in place. “The Crownsguard are not nearly as well equipped to face Niflheim, the losses would be too great.”

“Then we rely on the Kingsglaive,” Scientia looks up from his notepad and levels his gaze at Titus once again. “Can you successfully split the Kingsglaive if necessary, Captain?”

“It can be done,” Titus replies. “I will begin forming the teams at once, but there is no way to guarantee victory.” More notes are written, but when he looks away, Regis gives him a small nod of approval. 

“What if the information you gathered fails to be correct?”

“Then the Kingsglaive will continue as it has been.”

“It’s settled then,”Regis says finally, and Titus isn’t sure if it’s because he has that much faith in the Kingsglaive or if he is as desperate for this insufferably long meeting to be over as Titus himself. “The Kingsglaive will continue on, I have faith in their success, and we will continue to monitor Niflheim’s movements across Lucis. If you have any concerns feel free to request an audience, but I feel we’ve been at it for long enough. I hereby declare this meeting adjourned.” 

As one those seated at the long half empty table of the council room rise and bow, before trickling out one by one. Titus manages to slip out the door first, marching down the hall with purpose in the hopes of avoiding any further discussion on the matter. Niflheim was slowly but surely tightening its grip, and Titus wondered how much longer they would squeeze Insomnia before they made their move, before they gave Titus some kind of sign. 

“You will know when the time is nigh,” Izunia had said the last time they spoke, and Titus was still waiting, itching beneath the surface to put an end to all this. After years of fighting he was sick of war, sick of this twisted game, but he was nothing if not steadfast in his convictions. He could wait as long as necessary.

~X~

That night he finds himself in Cor’s apartment once more, desperate to leave the day far behind him. They’re still mostly dressed, Cor’s shirt clinging to his sweaty skin, his own only unbuttoned and still hanging off his shoulders. Nails bite into his chest as Cor pushes eager hands against his pecs for leverage as he rides him. The armchair is not the most comfortable place to fuck, the leather creaking beneath him, sticking to any bits of exposed skin that happen to meet it while they move, causing an unfortunate friction with the leather of his pants each time he bucks up to meet Cor’s movements. Not that Titus cares, they’d both been too desperate for release to bother making it to the bed, Cor had retreated to the bedroom only to grab the necessities and they’d fallen upon each other without much preamble. He’s glad of it, not quite willing to return to the room and it's photos. This was so much easier. Cor leans down to kiss him and their tongues tangle sloppy and wet as Cor continues his frantic movement above him. Titus grabs harshly at him, a hand digging into his as, causing Cor to groan, the other scratching at his back. Anywhere he can reach he touches and teases, relishing every muted sound Cor lets past his lips.

When he comes, Cor sags against him, but doesn’t linger, having barely caught his breath while Titus reaches his own high, lifting off of him the moment he was able. Titus watches him pull his pants back up his hips with hooded eyes, in no rush to shake the post cotial haze.

“You should clean up,” Cor says as he grabs the bottle of lube from the table. 

Titus looks down at himself, Cor’s come drying on his abdomen and condom still snug around his softening cock. Right. He removes the condom first, and makes his way to the bedroom and the bathroom attached to it, slipping around Cor without incident as he tosses the used rubber in the waste bin and wets a towel to clean the mess on his stomach. Once he’s finished he places it on the counter before buttoning his shirt. Cor gives him a look, staring pointedly at his cock with an arched brow before Titus tucks himself back into his pants without comment. 

“You look like there’s something you want to say.” He searches Cor’s face, notes the familiar set of his jaw he does when he’s holding back and waits for an answer he doesn’t really expect. 

“Just a lot on my mind,” Cor replies. After a pregnant pause he continues. “Those meeting always make me feel helpless, I hate it.” Titus hums, unwilling to reply to the man’s openness.

“If we didn’t feel helpless it wouldn’t be war,” he says. Cor holds his gaze, looks like he wants to speak but Titus isn’t willing to give him the chance. The conversation looming far too vulnerable for his liking. So he ends it before it can begin the only way he knows how, by leaving the room abruptly. Cor doesn’t follow him as he makes his way out of the apartment, doesn't call after him or try to make him stay. Perhaps he would have stayed if Cor had asked, after all he could still use a drink, but that makes the need for solitude all the stronger.

~X~

As the days pass into weeks and months Niflheim makes no move on either of the towns predicted, and Titus knows that Insomnia is being toyed with, that he himself is being jerked around on his puppet strings in a mockery of understanding. There is nothing to be done but wait, fight the same way the Glaives had been fighting, fall once more into an endless cycle of victory and defeat and stalemate. But Titus has gotten quite good at waiting, so he falls into his new yet familiar pattern without complaint, and he waits. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After another long wait I finally have a chapter. Another odd ideas got away from me chapter but a chapter none the less.  
> Unfortunately the next update might take a while, but I'm getting there, the end is nigh.  
> Its been a rough time, and I don't have much to say, but I hope you enjoy.  
> As always thanks for your support. 
> 
> Unbetad.

Sometimes things have a tendency to turn out far differently than expected. This sudden debacle with the assignments he’d set for the glaives on a mundane thursday was one of them. Crowe glares down at him, hands planted firmly on the desk, she was the fourth glaive today to barge into his office to complain, and Titus was nearing the limit of his tolerance. 

“There’s gotta be some sort of mistake, Captain, you can’t just put me on Wall patrol for no reason.” Titus sighs, this conversation already gone on longer than it should. 

“I can assign you however I see fit, Altius. Gate duty is on a cycle now, and though it may be your first time your assignment there is hardly unfair.”

“But-” He lifts a hand, and Crowe’s mouth snaps shut. 

“Nothing,” he finishes for her and though the anger in her eyes is still there, the defiance has lost its voice. “I have as much love for changing the standard routines as you, but I have no choice.” He pushes away from his chair to stand, passing Crowe on his way to the large window. She stands at attention as he passes by reflex and when he settles himself in front of the window, arms behind his back, he hears her relieved exhale. “I have no choice but to change assignments, Crowe. Every mission more glaives die and we have less volunteers by the day. We all must do what needs to be done.” 

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Titus looks out the window for a few seconds longer, at the glaives training in the yard, as if they were in another world entirely and h truthfully was nothing more than an outsider looking in. 

“Permission granted.”

“Do you think we’re gonna lose the war?” He looks back at her over his shoulder and though her face is a mask her eyes bare her feelings. 

“No,” he lies and it's so easy to slide it off his tongue after years of doing it. “But that doesn’t mean we won’t lose something.” It's a rare truth amidst everything, and Crowe’s face scrunchies into something contemplative. While she mulls over her words he moves past her, intent on leaving his office for some fresh air, and maybe a much needed discussion with the leader of the Crownsguard.

“Captain, wait-” Crowe realizes his trajectory too late, and he exits his office without pause.

“Hey! What's goin’ on?” Libertus stumbles as the door suddenly opens inward, his eavesdropping plainly exposed. He has the sense to look guilty, giving a sharp salute, going red in the face as Titus comes into his view. An awkward silence falls in the hallway. 

“If you have a complaint to make, Libertus, it will have to wait. I have a meeting at the Citadel.”

“Uh right, sir, ‘course.” The surprise on the glaive’s face hasn’t worn off, and Titus moves past him with a purposeful step, leaving Crowe and Libertus behind as he begins the long walk to the Citadel. Marching in without any sort of warning or appointment isn’t something he’s ever done, but he’s worn out on the proper channels, and the dissatisfaction of his troops is getting to him. Mind made in a moment of weakness he keeps going.

~X~

“Captain Drautos, you cannot simply barge in and demand a meeting with the lord Shield without setting a proper appointment!” Titus almost sighs, hardly stops himself from rolling his eyes, manages it because he already saw this coming. Clarus’s secretary, who he almost pitied in this moment, was a a small willowy man and had the unfortunate trait of showing his nerves. Sweat beaded on his brow and he dabbed at it with the back of his sleeve, fumbling through every regulation he could get past his lips before Titus stopped him. 

“Is Lord Amicitia in his office or not? I will not disturb him if he is with the king, but the matter is of some urgency.”

“He told me he was not to be disturbed unless His Majesty requested. Perhaps I can summon Marshal Leonis to assist you.”

“This is not a problem that can be solved by the Marshal, this is for the Captain of the Crownsguard.” His tone brooks no argument and he can see the man’s nerves get the best of him.   
“One moment, Captain Drautos,” he says thinly before slipping away from him and into the Shield’s office. Titus only has to wait a few minutes before the door opens again and the secretary reappears looking vexed. “Lord Amicitia will see you now.” The man’s displeasure is almost palpable, but Titus ignores him and marches into the office without another word. 

Sitting behind his large desk, hair greying and spectacles set aside on the stack of papers he’d been going over before Titus had interrupted, the Shield of the king looks old. 

“Drautos, I understand you have something urgent to discuss with me,”

“Yes, forgive my intrusion but it couldn’t wait.” Clarus looks at him with a serious furrow between his brows, but there’s no irritation there at being interrupted. 

“Yes?”

“Is there nothing to be done about the Kingsglaive assignments within the city? I accept that they must play their part when not out in the field, but they are starting to stretch thin. Today alone I’ve seen no less than a dozen of my finest glaives complain to me about their assignments. There is only so much I can do Clarus. With both the City Watch and the Crownsguard is it truly necessary for me to push them so outside their purpose?”

“I understand your concern, Drautos,” he sighs, one hand rubbing at his temple. 

“No offence, sir, but I don’t need your understanding, I need a solution.” 

“Of course. I apologize for the sudden change, I’m afraid that's my fault. I failed to take your losses into consideration.” Clarus pushes up from his chair and rounds his desk to meet Titus. “I’ll talk with Regis and Petra and see what we can do,” he says, clapping him on the arm amiably. He wants to reply with something biting, but the words fail him. 

Things would be easier he thinks, if he hated Clarus Amicitia, but he does not. For the Shield of the king he so hates he has nothing but respect, and so he stays silent, instead giving a stiff nod. Clarus takes it with a nod of his own and a strained look, as if he knows there’s only so much to be done to help the glaive, like he knows they are the sacrificial pawns Lucis keeps loosing in the war and it pains him. Titus takes his leave before his thoughts can further darken. The glaives at least will be satisfied that he tried no matter the outcome.

~X~

After such a week the solace of his apartment is utter peace. His plans are simply, enjoy a day of quiet without anything looming over his shoulders. He sets a simple stew to cook long and slow, lets the radio drivel nonsense, and contents himself with the mindless task of cleaning his neglected apartment, dusting just to have something to do. Not for the first time he considers the concept of sending his neighbor to fetch him a book or too, but he dismisses it. Material possessions mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. Besides, his empty hovel was his alone, there was no one to judge it's cold feel save him, and Titus couldn’t care less. 

As if to mock him there’s a knock at the door, a steady rapping Titus doesn’t recognize. If his ears weren’t so sharp he’d think he misheard, but it's undoubtedly his door. Fighting the urge to tense and ready himself for a fight he rises from his chair where he’d chosen to rest and heads for the door. On his way he turns off his small radio, as if the silence will help him identify the visitor. He steadies his breathing and works on convincing himself that there’s no way in hell that the Empire would be bold enough to contact him in person, and with a deep inhale he opens the door. Cor’s hand is raised to knock again, and he looks a mix between unsure and surprised when the door suddenly swings inward. 

“Hope I’m not interrupting your day off,” he starts and then holds up the file in his hand. “But I thought I’d get around to finally returning the favor.”

“Did you message me?” Titus is still blocking the way into his apartment and an old dusty part of him scolds the bad manners. Cor doesn’t look offended, but he does look almost sheepish.

“Kind of a last minute thought when I decided to stop by.” He holds the file out, and Titus feels the memories of that first night begin to spark in his mind. “I can go-” Cor trails off, looking unsure, and Titus shakes his head before moving aside. 

“It’s fine, come in,” he says stiffly, moving back into his apartment and feeling suddenly exposed. He watches Cor look around, his expression unreadable, but Titus can guess that the empty grey drab of his living space leaves a lot to be desired. 

“Never took you for a minimalist,” Cor says and it's painfully obvious that he’s trying to defuse the awkwardness in the room which Titus is doing nothing to ease. “Or a cook,” he adds, sniffing the air and looking at his small corner of a kitchen where the slowcooker trudges on. 

“I keep it simple,” he shrugs, moving over to his small desk against the right wall and needlessly lining up what scant few papers are there. Cor joins him by the desk, the file he brought coming to rest on the other end of the desk. 

“So I can see,” Cor replies, but there’s no judgment or pity in his tone. Titus should appreciate that, but it's not so simple. 

“I’m sure there are better things to do with your free time than admire my decour,” Titus says, a blatant dismissal perhaps sharper than he intended. Cor takes it in stride as always, sliding closer to him. 

“True.” Cor makes a show of being thoughtful as he steps closer, eyes meeting his in an unspoken challenge. “I’m sure there are much better ways I could be spending my time.” They’re back to that familiar dance, the innuendo far too blunt to be lost on him. Cor does that damn thing with his lip, chewing it in mock thought as his hand lifts to walk his fingers teasingly along the line of Titus’s shoulder.

“I am not so well equipped as you for such activities, Marshal,” he admits, voice low, playing into the game easier than he would have liked but unable to resist the man’s damn charms. How easily he twisted around those remarkable fingers. Already the ghost of past pleasures was concocting feelings the piqued his interest. With a dangerous smile, Cor leans forward, hands slipping down to the waistband of his pants as he does so. 

“There are other ways to fuck, Captain,” Cor whispers in his ear and Titus shudders, hands reaching for the man’s hips to bring him closer. A breathy chuckle leaves Cor before his mouth drops to tease the skin of his neck, teeth grazing his adam’s apple before he slowly, so slowly, sinks down to his knees. 

Blood pounds in his ears as Cor tugs the tied drawstrings of his pants loose and then pulls them down with that same teasing slowness, nipping at the jut of his hip as the fabric slip down. He’s already half hard, and he jerks when Cor takes him in hand, giving him a few teasing strokes. Titus watches with rapt attention, breathing starting to quicken as Cor works, and then Cor looks up, a smirk on his lips as his hand stills.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while now,” Cor says, “Just tell me if I need to stop.” With a coy quirk of his lips Cor dips his head and licks a long stripe down his cock. Titus gasps, stumbles back a step and the back of his legs bump his armchair. “Sit,” Cor suggests, a velvet purr he has no desire to deny. If he tries to stand for much longer he fears his knees may buckle, so he sits, chest heaving as Cor’s breath ghosts across the sensitive skin of his cock, the fabric of the chair almost rough against his bare ass. 

Much to his benefit Cor starts slow, a soft trail of kisses from the tip of his cock to the base, each one setting fire to his nerves. Titus does what he can to compose himself, anchored only by Cor’s free hand digging into his hip to keep him still as he works. He inhales sharply when Cor’s tongue darts out to lick the base of his cock, sweeping down to his balls and giving the delicate skin a gentle suck. He can’t hold in his groan, fingers digging into the arms of the chair. Cor pulls away, hand abandoning his cock to seek out his wrist, slowly guiding Titus’s callused hand to his head. It’s an invitation Titus can hardly ignore, so he nods and lets his hand rest gently atop Cor’s head, hardly resisting the urge to run his fingers through the soft hair. Cor smirks, and the he dips his head back down and resumes his previous attentions. The feel of Cor’s tongue against the tip of his cock makes him shudder, each teasing swirling lick clouding his thoughts with lust.Then Cor wraps his lips around the head, enveloping him in wet heat, and he is lost, a loud moan leaving his parted lips before he can even think to stop it. Cor hums his own pleasure at the response, the vibration around his cock making Titus moan again, fingers tightening in Cor’s hair. Again Cor’s tongue swirls around him, the feeling amplified within his mouth, and then gently, he sucks, and Titus loses all sense of control. 

Alternating between sucking and those deft movements of his tongue, Cor begins to bob his head and Titus sinks further into the chair, head lolling back as he loses himself to the feeling. Somehow Cor has all the power here, the marshal on his knees, Titus’s cock in his mouth, and he has all the power. Titus isn’t used to not being in control, especially not when they’re like this, but he finds for the first time that the prospect of letting go isn’t daunting. So he does, and revels in the feel of Cor’s talented hands and mouth around him. He’s close now, can practically taste that blissful edge, fingers tightening in Cor’s hair and tugging lightly as words fail him. Hooded eyes meet his as his head drops forward to watch Cor work, and there is a dangerously smug look in those light eyes Titus doesn’t have the sense to understand. In a shockingly easy motion, Cor slides down his length to the base, every thick inch engulfed by tight wet heat. When he swallows around him Titus comes hard, heart pounding in his ears, drowning out the sounds of his pleasure as Cor pulls back to the tip and works him through it with insistent sucks, milking him for all he’s worth. 

Cor pulls off of him with an obscene wet pop, a thin trail of saliva and come connecting them for a moment before it breaks and Cor’s tongue darts out to lick it from his lips with a smirk. He opens his mouth, but Titus pulls him forward before he can speak and crashes their mouths together. The man tastes of bitter salt, of him, and Titus pulls him firmly into his lap and forces his tongue into his mouth. Cor moans into the kiss, and he can feel his hardness pressing against his thigh. He breaks the kiss and snakes his hand between them, palming Cor’s cock through his pants.

“That excited from having your mouth on me?” Cor shudders against him and Titus presses an open mouthed kiss against his neck. With a quick movement of his fingers he undoes the button of Cor’s pants and lowers the zipper, pulling his cock free.

“I told you I’ve been wanting to do that,” Cor says, voice low, hissing through his teeth as Titus takes him in hand. 

“Well you have quite the talent, Marshal.” He’s almost slick to the touch, precome dribbling from the tip and making his grip slick and smooth as he begins to jerk Cor towards completion. It doesn’t take much, a few quick strokes and Cor throws his head back with a moan, coming between them hard and Titus barely manages to catch most of the mess with his hand. 

For a while they simply sit there, breathing heavily until it steadies and syncs, finding some semblance of composure after what they just did. With a rare graceless movement, Cor shifts out of his lap, standing and tucking himself back into his pants. Titus, though he hates to admit it, has little sense to do anything, content to sit in his chair while his body continues to ride that pleasurable blissed feeling. There’s a beat of silence, almost awkward as Cor stands there looking like he’s not sure what to do.

“Care for a drink?” He finally manages to get out when he stands to grab his pants, thinking it might help the situation if he wasn’t naked from the waist down. Cor looks tempted by the offer, but he shakes his head. 

“No, I uh, should be going,” he starts, rubbing at the back of his neck, a conflicted furrow firmly between his brows. “Errands and all that.” He makes for the door, casting an unreadable look over his shoulders. “And before I forget, the envelope is from Prompto, dropped them off at my office, but I figured you’d want to take a look. From the prince’s last training session.” He scratches at the back. “Yeah. I’ll see you around.” Then he’s gone, and his apartment is quiet and empty. 

He’s almost glad Cor is gone, his common sense back now that he’s out of his space. As much as he enjoy’s drinks they’ve never had them after sex, and it's perhaps best to keep it that way. Staying far away from any sort of intimacy is a good thing. With nothing better to do Titus eyes the file and envelope Cor left on his desk. He inspects the envelope first, lifting it carefully, opening it as he would something dangerous. There’s twenty photos in all, printed with a surprising quality and Titus runs his fingers against the glossy finish on the corners of each as he looks through the stack. The first few are candid shots of the training yard, glaives captured mid jump, sparring, or simply watching the activities of the yard, posing for the boy’s photos ridiculously. Most are of the prince, standing with his retainers, copying the moves of nearby glaives, smiling for the camera. Near the end he stops, unable to tear his eyes away from the picture in his grasp. It’s him and Cor, him and Cor smiling. Cor laughing quietly beside him, his raised hand hiding nothing. Titus can’t remember seeing himself look happy since home, but in the snapshot he does. Even though the photo doesn’t have the same quality as the others, Titus can see the truth of an almost joy. For a moment he contemplates tossing it away, but he hesitates when his hand hovers over the bin. Perhaps he should keep it, if only to be less suspicious for Cor’s next visit, something he’s sure will happen again. 

For the next hour he organizes and separates the various photos into stacks, the smallest one he plans to keep, the others are to be distributed amongst the glaives as a gift from the prince and his friends, which is partially true. When he’s finished there are ten photographs haphazardly stuck to the wall, a few by leftover nails from the last inhabitant and most stuck by the back with tape that happened to be in one of his kitchen drawers. If nothing else it makes the space look moderately more lived in, a man’s home instead of a monster’s cage. He stares at the pictures, ignoring the feeling trying to slowly creep up inside him and goes back to his mindless cleaning in silence.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I updated this but eh thats life. My move is all done now so hopefully I get back to updating things with a bit more frequency.  
> There's smut to compensate.   
> This is a long one, but its been a while since I have gotten to sit down and write so some of this chapter might be a little off, trying to find my groove again and I haven't got a clue if I accomplished that with this.   
> But it is good to be back.   
> 15 chapters is where I thought this thing would end, but nah we still have a few to go. So thanks for sticking with it. 
> 
> Unbetad

Since he left home, battered and broken, he’s learned to flow with the curves life throws him. When he joined Niflheim he accepted the terms, he became Glauca, and he accepted the things that came after. He remembers all the fires, all the deaths, the sound of magitek engines and screaming and Glauca’s power buzzing in his ears. He flows now through a new routine as the days pass him by. The thing that stands out most, he finds, is his time with Cor. What started as a monthly meeting for stress relief has become so frequent Titus finds himself thinking of it almost daily. Their friendly drinks and not so friendly fucking have blended together to the point where Titus isn’t quite sure how to handle it. 

Like now, sitting with his back against the headboard, sweat still clinging to his skin as Cor catches his breath beside him, neither of them in any hurry to get away, something that's been happening more often as of late. He knows he shouldn’t linger, knows that it's a dangerous and cruel game he’s playing. But when given the option of a warm embrace and the cold solitude of his own bed he finds himself more often than not choosing the former. 

How long is he going to let this last?

“I could go for a drink,” Cor says, and Titus glances over to him as he sits up suddenly. “Interested?” Titus shrugs instead of saying no like he should, and stands to start gathering his clothes.

“Maybe tea,” he finds himself saying as he dresses. “It’s a long walk.” 

“Sure, I can do tea.” He flashes a small smile before getting dressed himself and heading to the kitchen ahead of him. A sigh slips past Titus’s lips once he’s alone and he runs a hand through his mussed hair in frustration. 

Part of him wants nothing more than to isolate himself and cut this thing apart entirely, but his voice of reason has become weak these past months turning to years. He’d ruined his chances when he’d first accepted the olive branch of drinks now years ago. That one simple kindness, the most human he’d allowed himself to be since Glauca became a part of him, has taken root so deep he’s not sure he can cut it. His body craves the comfort, his very soul the reminder that Titus Drautos was still alive within the shell he’d built around himself. 

By the time he pulls himself out of his own thoughts to meet Cor in the kitchen the tea is done, and he accepts the small cup with a grunt of gratitude. He drinks leaning against the counter, intent to leave the moment he’s finished, and Cor makes no comment as he takes his seat at the table. 

“You called to that Council meeting tomorrow?”

“No,” Titus replies. “I haven’t been called to a meeting since our last deployment.”

“Hm.” Cor takes a long drink, staring into his cup for a moment before meeting his eyes. “Tell me something, are things getting any better out there?” 

“Depends on how you ask.” Titus shrugs because it's the truth, there’s almost no need to lie. “We still win, but we’re taking more losses than volunteers can replace. They’re trying to wear us down, until we can’t push back.”

“So that's a no then.”

“Marshal, I won’t lie to you,” he lies. “Things are bad, but Insomnia won’t fall any time soon, not with the Glaive still kicking and the Wall still standing.”

“You’ve got a way with words, Drautos,” Cor replies humorlessly, but he leans back relaxed, like the response was exactly what he needed to hear. 

“Sometimes blunt words are the best tool. If you wanted me to wax poetic you should have asked.”

“You waxing poetic? Hah! I’d pay to see that.”

“The right payment and I’d be more than willing to demonstrate.” He shoots Cor a heated look as he finishes his tea and sets the empty cup on the counter. The man laughs, but the light flush of his cheeks is hard to miss. 

“I’ll hold you to that.”

~X~

Life moves in it's new pattern and Titus lets it. Some days he almost forgets the Empire, captured wholly by the lie that his life has become, being the perfect Captain to the Kingsglaive, and good company to Cor, the days where he feels like his real self. Of course the Citadel remains a place that forever flays his nerves, and any interaction with Regis is enough to sour his mood, but for a time it all feels normal, with inconsistent reminders to the contrary. Such peace of mind can only last for so long however, Titus is very well aware of that.

In the end, the Kingsglaive are right, Niflheim attacks from both sides, and they are given no aide against the split onslaught. The formerly clear skies of Mizar fill with smoke as the ruins of an already decrepit outpost go up in flames. Luche leads the half of the Glaive deployed to Gabrana, and he doubts they’re fairing much better. Things had started falling apart almost the moment they arrived. Daemons swarmed them in broad daylight, somehow sustained beneath the sweltering sun. Magitek he had suspected, but even his knowledge of the Empire drew blank at this sort of power, and combined with the might of the MT units it felt like the halved unit of Glaives were nothing but ants. 

It's all starting to crumble, he can feel the looming inevitability of Niflheim’s intervention, the hour of his vengeance close at hand, but there’s too much death. Titus knows indisputably then that the end is nearing, not here just yet, but it's creeping closer by the day, a dark message telling him to get ready, the first sign of the end. All he can smell is death and smoke, can feel it clawing at his memories, old losses along with new jumbling together until he doesn’t care to distinguish them. He calls the retreat, contacts Luche and orders him to do the same, two days of brutal fighting and surviving wasted against impossible odds. 

By the time they return to Insomnia Titus feels hollow, spews his lies to his false king about the division causing the loss, makes hollow vows of defense, and leaves still in a haze. He doesn’t remember much, not the king’s words, not what he said to the Glaives or what they said to him, doesn’t remember the drive, all he knows is their losses were staggering and only set to dwindle more. Keep them alive now, kill them later, when Niflheim calls for blood loyal to Lucis, kill them then. His feet carry him and Titus drifts, not caring where he’s going as he wars to keep himself together, his past, present, and future pulling at each other until all Titus hears is noise that's not there.

Suddenly he stops, and he’s torn from his revere to see his destination. It’s not his apartment, but he knows the door all the same. He shouldn’t be here, not like this and never again. He should leave, but his body refuses, his mind is tired and his chest suddenly aches. Arriving unannounced in the middle of the night was hardly the worst thing he’d ever done. Leave, leave now. Almost by its own volition his hand raises to knock weakly on the door. It opens some moments later, and Titus feels his will leave him.

“You look terrible,” Cor says, eyeing him up and down. “Come on.” He nods his head inside as he opens the door wider and Titus enters in a haze, his feet carrying him over the threshold without much thought. 

Once inside he drops to unlace his boots out of habit, fingers fumbling with the clasps until they are batted away. His eyes shoot up but Cor isn’t looking at him, intent on undoing his laces. He doesn’t say anything, and Titus can’t bring himself to break the silence. When he’s done Cor stands, waiting for him to shuck off those damnably tall boots. He manages to free himself in a somewhat timely fashion, and Cor sets to divesting him of the simpler parts of his armor. The leather comes away neatly, and Cor carefully hangs it on the coat rack before working on his shirt, deft fingers undoing the buttons with a quick ease before brushing the fabric off his broad shoulders. When that’s done Cor leads him back into the bedroom with a loose grip on his wrist and he follows easily. 

“Marshal-” Cor cuts him off with a bruising kiss, using his surprise to his advantage and moving them until he’s able to push Titus down onto the bed. What he needs doesn’t need to be said, Cor knows, those eyes filled with an understanding brought by experience. 

“Lie back,” he urges, and Titus would be more inclined to refuse if he wasn’t so damn tired, so he simply does as he’s bid, moving back on the bed until his feet don’t dangle off the edge and his head hits the pillows. “Just relax, Captain.” And he does, the tension of the last few days easing out of him as he sinks into the sheets. 

For a moment he contemplates sleep, eyes fluttering closed, the bed beneath him soft and inviting until it dips and he feels moist lips against against his throat. A pleased hum rumbles up through his chest as Cor nips at his throat, and then trails wet kisses down his chest and stomach, stopping at the waistband of his pants. Exhaustion turns to a growing arousal with Cor’s hands working at his belt and zipper, and he shifts his hips as Cor peals the leather slowly down his legs. Titus expects Cor to stroke him to hardness, anticipates rough jerks from that familiar calloused palm, is more eager for it that he cares to admit. A sharp groan tears from his throat at the feel of Cor’s mouth around his cock and his hand finds its way to the man’s head. Cor lets him guide his movements with an insistent touch, his hair soft against his palm. His hips jerk under the ministration, but Cor keeps him from bucking into his mouth with a hand pressed hard against his hip. 

Through the haze he hears a pop, but it's distant, Titus can’t find it in himself to care at this point, unable to process much beyond the velvet wetness around him, that tongue doing delectable things with every bob of Cor’s head. When he’s properly hard and aching Cor leaves him with a parting suck to the tip that makes him see stars. He feels Cor roll the condom down his length, hears another pop, and then Cor’s hand is around him, slicking him with lube. A leg swings over his hips and Titus opens his eyes to the sight of Cor’s back, smooth and taunt. Almost mesmerized by the vision before him, Titus watches as Cor slowly sinks down on his length, taking him all the way in until he’s seated on his lap. Their moans mingle and Titus settles his hands on Cor’s hips, thumbs rubbing against the soft skin of his back.

They don’t speak, Cor simply moves, takes his pleasure as Titus lies back and lets him. Cor’s back flexes with each graceful roll of his hips, breathing heavy and almost loud in the silence. Titus watches him with rapt attention, stifling his own sounds of pleasure to catch each of Cor’s, can feel the way his own heart stutters with each quiet moan. Soon it's not enough to simply watch as Cor’s right hand drops between his own legs and his rhythm stutters and speeds, Titus can’t content himself with doing nothing. One of his hands falls away from Cor’s hip, moving to the mattress beside him to push himself up, sore muscles ignored as his back presses to Cor’s chest and he feels him shudder. 

Almost lazily he drops his head to Cor’s shoulder, a simple press of lips against skin. Cor sighs and leans back against him, hand falling away from himself to reach back for him, nails biting against his hip as if to bring him impossibly closer. The angle can’t be easy but Cor manages, letting out breathy sounds near his ear as Titus traces his mouth along the line of his neck. He lets the hand still on Cor’s hip trace up until it's splayed along his chest, pulling him in close as his fingers brush the hard line of his collarbone. By the soft sounds he’s starting to make Titus knows he’s close. How easy it would be to kill him now, his hand slips up that much further until it rests around Cor’s throat, it would be so easy, and before he can gain enough sense to stop himself he squeezes with the lightest of pressure. Cor moans sharply, jerking in his grip as he comes, warmth painting Titus’s thighs. He lets himself be pulled into a sloppy kiss by the sudden insistent tugs of Cor’s fingers in his hair, groans into Cor’s mouth as he follows in his own pleasure. 

Boneless and sapped of the last of his strength Titus lets himself fall back onto the bed, heaving for breath and unwilling to move. For a moment Cor remains astride him, hunched forward and catching his own breath. Soon enough he lifts away, and Titus watches the obscene way his cock slips free of his ass as he maneuvers himself off the bed. Cor is kind enough to remove the condom, and Titus shudders as his grip lingers on his sensitive cock before he moves away.

“Rest, it's alright.” Titus grunts, forcing one eye back open to track his movement. “And feel free to use the shower if you’d like, might do you some good once you’re up,” he says, tilting his head towards the bathroom as he hunts for his pants. 

“You didn’t seem to mind,” he mumbles back, and Cor chuckles.

“Don’t be too smug.” Cor grins, and Titus feels his eyes flutter closed against the strain to keep them open, a wordless sound falling from his lips before sleep suddenly takes him.

~X~

When he wakes he’s not sure how much time is passed, but it can’t have been too long, he’s still tired, but the edge of his exhaustion has been taken off nicely. There’s a large glass of water on the bedside table next to a painkiller that won’t work but he takes it anyway and chugs the water, not realizing how thirsty he was until it hits the dryness of his throat. He eats the protein bar as well, grateful to have something somewhat filling, all together it helps him feel more present and solid. A lingering tiredness still clings to him and the idea of a hot shower is an impossible thing to ignore. Gingerly he stands, muscles sore but markedly less than when he arrived, before he makes his way to the bathroom.

The shower does well to soothe him, the hot water bliss against his skin, and he lingers beneath the spray far longer than he usually does. When he’s motivated enough to move he turns off the now lukewarm water and drys off with little hurry, far too relaxed now to bother with any sort of his usual haste. He finds most of his clothes laid out neatly on the dresser along with a pair of sweatpants too large to be Cor’s. For a moment he wonders if they’re his before he remembers the improbability, but he can’t help but wonder who they belong to. Are the Cor’s? Too large by mistake and kept for this reason? Or did they belong to some ex lover and were forgotten? Titus doesn’t let himself linger on that last thought and the dangerous way it makes him feel. The idea of putting on the dirty tight leather of his pants isn’t a pleasant one, and he relents to the old sweats, pulling them on before draping his pants over his arm and making his way out of the bedroom. He doesn’t remember what happened to his shirt, but he’s sure he’ll find it with the rest of his armor, and it’s high time he take his leave. 

“Looking for this?” His gaze snaps over to the armchair, approaching without thought. There Cor sits rather languidly, bare legs propped out and crossed at the ankles, greeting him with a raised glass of amber liquid and an unmistakable black sleeve bunching at the crook of his arm. 

“That's my shirt.” Which was obvious, but Titus finds he can’t get much else past his suddenly leaden tongue. Cor nods and tips back his glass, polishing it off with a few slow gulps and Titus watches his throat bob with a growing interest. 

“Would you like it back?” Yes, because it's late and he should leave, needs to leave, but he’s rooted to the the spot. Something about the nonchalance in Cor’s voice, the borderline taunt, coupled with the way he practically swims in that shirt, awakens something in Titus that he can’t quite explain. What he does know, is that he wants the man sitting in front of him. 

Seemingly able to read his thoughts, or more likely just able to read his desire, Cor stands and brushes past him towards the counter. His shirt is loose on Cor, hanging just above the tops of his thighs. Titus presses against his back the moment Cor sets his glass on the counter, and the man leans back against him, chuckling softly. 

“Thought you’d still be tired, that wasn’t much of a nap.”

“Enough to give me a second wind,” Titus replies lowly, nipping at Cor’s neck while his hand sneaks up Cor’s thigh. 

“Was hoping you would say that.”

“That so?” His hand finds Cor’s ass and he squeezes until Cor hums before sliding his fingers between his cheeks. He inhales sharply when he meets only slick heat and no resistance, and his first finger slips inside without resistance. “Were you?” He can’t even finish the question, lost already to his task, another finger slipping in beside the first. 

“Got a little pent up, been weeks since we had the time.” He rocks back against his fingers as a third joins the first two. “Had to get creative, maybe find someone to scratch the itch.” Cor’s tone is breathy and teasing, but Titus practically growls all the same, wrenching his fingers free and more than willing to stake a claim he had no right to. 

“Wait!” Cor gasps. “Not here.” Titus stops immediately, hands falling away without hesitation. He’s met with a needy kiss as Cor turns in his arms and tugs him along with a grip on his arms.   
Cor lets go only once, to swipe the condom he hadn’t noticed off the coffee table, and Titus stands impossibly still as Cor pushes his borrowed sweats down enough to free his cock and tears the packet open and slides it down his length, slicking him with lube a moment later. 

When Cor’s back hits the wall they stop and he knows what that glint in Cor’s eyes is asking for. His palms drift from Cor’s hips and he lifts him easily with his hands on his ass, Cor’s legs spread as they drape over his arms as he brings Cor up against the wall. A sigh slips past his lips when Cor reaches between them to grab his cock and guide it home, Cor’s soft moan music to his ears. At first the pace is slow, an awkward adjustment to the new position, but soon Titus finds his rhythm and seeing Cor with the black of his shirt contrasting starkly against his pale skin and the flush dusting his cheeks is reward enough for his efforts. Lips fall against the exposed column of Cor’s throat and it's hard to resist the urge to leave a visible mark. Instead he trails little nips down past the collar of his shirt to his chest where he sucks a harsh mark onto the center of his chest, the black fabric tickling the sides of his face. A rad mark remains in his wake, framed by black and white. Cor moans and tugs harshly at his hair, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Every moment that passes drives his passion further, his hips snap and his hands hold Cor to him with bruising force as he fucks the man into the wall relentlessly, spurred on by every sound and grasp of needy hands. It makes him feel alive, reminds him that he’s alive, and Cor is here living with him, and that in this moment he is untouchable and so very alive.

They are never particularly loud when they fuck, something he’s always appreciated, but the noises he pulls from Cor now are almost addicting in their newness. His moans, usually so quiet and controlled, ring sharp through the apartment and damn Titus wants to hear more. So he shifts his grip under Cor’s legs and pins him harder to the wall with every thrust. It does the trick, Cor cries out, and Titus feels blunt nails claw against this back as Cor scrambles for purchase. The edge is close now, his muscles burning, sweat slicking his skin. He brushes the collar of his shirt aside and mouths the junction where Cor’s shoulder meets his neck and bites down hard, shifting his grip and grinding into the man in his arms. He feels his own release wash over him just as Cor stiffens in his arms and lets out a shout. 

Despite the sudden weakness in his legs he holds them up for a moment, pressed heavily against Cor while they catch their breath. Again he feels exhausted, but this time it is a pleasant feeling, though he’s sure his muscles will protest greatly come morning. When he feels like his legs will hold him steady he lifts Cor of his cock and lowers him slowly to the ground where he sways and tightens his grip. 

“I’ll be feeling that tomorrow,” Cor chuckles breathlessly, and Titus grunts his agreement. Pulling back once Cor steadies himself, he rights himself and tries manages to keep his eyes away from Cor’s state of disarray. 

“I should go,” he says, almost to himself as he puts distance between them, stifling a sudden yawn.

“It’s late and you’re exhausted,” Cor states matter-of-factly. “You’re welcome to stay.” That has a softer tone to it, and Titus looks at him, now holding his shirt closed as if shy. “The couch is pretty comfortable,” he adds as if able to read Titus’s apprehensive thoughts. 

A refusal gets caught and silenced by another yawn impossible to stifle and that coupled with Cor’s arched brow is enough for him to acquiesce. Just this once. Besides sleeping on Cor’s couch is hardly intimate, and in truth he had no interest making the long journey to his own apartment half asleep in the middle of the night. With a triumphant look on his face Cor walks to his bedroom, and Titus simply waits where he stands. Five minutes pass before Cor reappears dressed in simple sleep clothes with a pillow and blanket in one arm and the black shirt draped over the other. 

“I don’t usually have guests so I hope this is enough,” he says as he sets the makeshift bedding down on the couch for Titus to arrange as he pleased. Titus tosses the pillow against one arm of the couch so his feet will face the door before picking up the blanket. It’s an old blue thing, knitted he thinks, but soft all the same. From the other side of the room Cor clears his throat, smoothing out the fabric of the black shirt where it now rests on the armchair. 

“Thank you,” he manages to say after a few awkward moments of silence. 

“Don’t mention it,” Cor replies quickly. “If you need anything let me know, just get some rest, Drautos, Astrals know you need it.” Then he returns to his bedroom, door closing behind him and Titus is alone. 

If he wanted he could still leave, but the moment he sits down on the couch the strength to do so leaves him. Accepting his fate he adjusts himself on his back, head nestled on the downy pillow and the arm of the couch and his feet draped over the other thanks to his height. Still it was surprisingly comfortable, almost more so than his own bed. Coupled with the warmth of the blanket, the safety of Cor’s apartment lulls him into a deep and much needed sleep.

~X~

Glauca comes forth in the throne room, death and vengeance wrapped in steel. The room is empty, just him and the king, blanketed in a calm silence. He moves forward, footsteps echoing loud through the high chamber as he walks towards the king of Lucis with his sword clasped in both hands. The king does not speak, not until his end is too close to escape.

“Why?” 

“For my home,” He replies, then draws back and thrusts the thick blade forward fast and true. Except it's not the king dying by his hand when he looks back to his victim. Blood seeps from between Cor’s lips, red slowly dripping from the corners, splashing to the ground loud as rain. 

Surprise jolts him awake and he tries not to let the panic set in, dazed by the unfamiliar surroundings and the freshness of his dream. A dream that has never changed for years. Then he remembers. Soft moonlight filters in from the kitchen window just bright enough for him to recognize the space around him. Damn but Cor’s apartment shouldn’t be so familiar. Titus sits up and wipes the sweat from his brow, taking deep breaths until he calms. The bedroom door is cracked and he’s almost tempted to peek into the dark room just to make sure all is well and immediately stamps the thought. He needs to leave. 

The old blanket he’d slept beneath gets folded and set on the arm of the couch before he stumbles half blind through the living room in an attempt to find his discarded clothes in the dark. He finds his shirt where Cor had left it draped over the armchair, smelling of sweat and sex. With only a little difficulty he ignores it, shoves his arms through the sleeves and continues the hunt for his pants until his foot catches the leg of one of the dining table chairs and shatters the quiet. Titus holds his breath and waits, but his luck has run out and soon enough the space is bathed in light. 

“You could have turned on a light,” Cor says from near the front door, hand still on the switch, voice hoarse with sleep. 

“Didn’t want to wake you.” Just like that Cor’s expression softens, and Titus tries not to notice the slight limp as he makes his way across the room. 

“It's still late,” he says, hand hovering over Titus’s arm. “You’re welcome to stay, at least until sunrise.” 

Titus wants to refuse, but Cor’s right, and the last thing he needs is to stumble his way home during the night while he’s still exhausted. Instead he nods and lets Cor’s feather light touch guide him back to the couch. Cor flips on the light in the kitchen, dimming it until it's little more than a warm glow, before he starts pulling things from his cabinets.

“What are you doing?” 

“What I always do when I can’t sleep.” Is the only answer he gets, but he hears the stove flare to life and decides it's better to just wait, relaxing back into the couch as his fingers idly trace the frayed edges of the blanket beside him. 

Titus closes his eyes, letting himself be lulled by the sound of Cor working until the couch dips beside him and Cor is there holding a steaming cup out for him. He takes it, lets the touch of their fingers linger until he brings the drink to his lap and holds it with both hands, the warmth seeping into his cold and clammy palms. 

He sniffs, “tea?”

“Chamomile,” Cor says. He brings his own cup to his lips and takes a long sip. “Helps with the nightmares.” Titus shifts, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost,” Cor explains. “I know that look.”

The image of Cor dying by his hand still haunts the edges of his vision and he returns his gaze to the steam rising from his mug. After a few more sips and a long minute of silence Cor speaks again.

“Can I ask what it was about?” Spoken so softly that Titus could ignore it if he wanted, but his walls are weak, and for once honesty wins back the reins to his tongue. 

“Death,” he replies, looking Cor in the eye and still seeing the dead man from his dream. “Always death.”

A look of empathy crosses Cor’s face, his eyes softening with a sort of understanding Titus doesn’t want to see but can’t look away from. He places a hand, warm from the tea, against his arm and gives it a gentle pat. Nothing is said, Cor stands and pads around the couch and Titus feels his skin tingle at the loss of contact as he goes. Cor stops in the doorway, tea cradled once again between his palms as he looks at Titus again.

“Be sure to finish it, I promise it helps.” And then he’s back in his room and this time the door clicks behind him. 

Titus lets out a shaky breath and then finishes his tea, letting the warmth of it sting and soothe his throat in equal measure. Carefully he sets the empty cup down on the table and resumes his awkward position on the couch, staring up into the dark until he can no longer keep his eyes open. When he next drifts off no dreams chase him, just as promised.


End file.
